“See how well I do it,” said she to her sister, who was fearfully watching these manœuvres.
“I see well enough.”
“Where shall we go?” Quentin asked the girl.
“Right through the picnic-grounds.”
They rode among the groups; the arrogance of the rider and the grace of Remedios with her red flower in her hair, attracted the attention of the crowd.
“There’s a pair for you!” said some as they watched them ride by; and she smiled with her shining eyes.
Following Remedios’ orders, Quentin rode back and forth among the places which she pointed out to him.
“Now let’s go to the mountain.”
Quentin rode up hill for half an hour.
The afternoon was drawing to a close; the shadows of the trees were lengthening on the grass; white clouds, solid as blocks of marble, with their under sides ablaze, floated slowly over the mountain; the air smelt of rosemary and thyme. Cordova appeared upon the plain enveloped in a cloud of golden dust; beyond her undulated low hills of vivid green, stretching in echelon one behind the other, until they were lost in the distance in a golden haze of vibrating light. Over the roofs of the city rose church towers, slate-covered cupolas, black, sharp-pointed cypresses. From between the walls of a garden, with a very tall and twisted trunk, a gigantic palm tree raised its head—like a spider stuck to the sky....