A word in conclusion on Vivillo. Neither ignorance nor necessity impelled Joaquin Camargo, nicknamed El Vivillo (the Lively One), to embark, at the age of twenty-five, on a career of crime. Rather it was that spirit of knight-errantry, of reckless adventure, that centuries before had swept the Spanish Main, and that nowadays, in baser sort, thrives and is fostered by a false romance--as Diego Corrientes, the bandit, was reputed to be "run" by a duchess, as the "Seven Lads of Ecija" terrorised under the ægis of exalted patronage, and José Maria, the murderer of the Sierra Moréna, was extolled as a melodramatic hero by novelists all over Spain. On such lines young Camargo thought to gather fresh glories for himself. He early gained notoriety by a smart exploit in holding-up the diligence from Las Cabezas for Villa Martin just when the September Fair was proceeding at the latter place. The passengers, mostly cattle-dealers, were relieved of bursting purses--no cheques pass current at Villa Martin--to the tune of £8000. After that, for several years, Vivillo ruled rural Andalucia, and his desperate deeds supplied the papers with startling head-lines. When pursuit became troublesome he embarked for Argentina, and soon his name was forgotten. His retreat, however, was discovered, and Vivillo was brought back, landing at Cádiz February 19, 1908. Since that date he has lived in Seville prison--a man of high intelligence, of reputed wealth, and the father of two pretty daughters. For reasons unexplained (and into which we do not inquire) his trial never comes on. Vivillo keeps a stiff lip and enjoys ... nearly all he wants. [Illustration: A SUMMER EVENING--SPARROW-OWLS (_Athene noctua_) AND MOTHS] CHAPTER XVII LA MANCHA THE LAGOONS OF DAIMIEL Immediately to the north of our "Home-Province" of Andalucia, but separated therefrom by the Sierra Moréna, stretch away the uplands of La Mancha--the country of Don Quixote. The north-bound traveller, ascending through the rock-gorges of Despeñaperros, thereat quits the mountains and enters on the Manchegan plateau. A more dreary waste, ugly and desolate, can scarce be imagined. Were testimony wanting to the compelling genius of Cervantes, in very truth La Mancha itself would yield it. [Illustration] Yet it is wrong to describe La Mancha as barren. Rather its central highlands present a monotony of endless uninteresting cultivation. League-long furrows traverse the landscape, running in parallel lines to utmost horizon, or weary the eye by radiating from the focal point as spokes in a wheel. But never a break or a bush relieves one's sight, never a hedge or a hill, not a pool, stream, or tree in a long day's journey. Oh, it is distressing, wherever seen--in Old World or New--that everlasting cultivation on the flat. True, it produces the necessary fruits of the earth--here (to wit) corn and wine.