Then an idea occurred to us. The husbandman, who had finished his meal, and was now lighting a cigarette, would be sure to have food. We would ask him to sell us some bread.
The peasant, who proved to be a kindly soul, had a beard and the most dilapidated hat ever worn by mortal man. But he had no bread. The hut under the windmill was only a shelter. His home was in the valley, and it was evidently his provisions for the day that he had just consumed. He did what he thought was next best, and drawing a great jar of clean water from his well, brought it to us.
The Boy and Antonia, who had gone off to try their luck at the other windmill, returned bringing two shapeless lumps of the stalest rye bread ever eaten, and the kindly dilapidated man who, in genuine concern for our welfare, had been hovering near, disappeared into his shanty, and reappearing with a plate of olives, presented them to us. So off olives, water from an antique jar, and mouldy rye bread that vied with it in antiquity, we took the edge off our appetites.
I must not forget the prickly pears--or cactus figs--that we had picked on the way up. A certain fearful joy attends the gathering of this fruit, which requires the exercise of some ingenuity in dodging its insidious prickles. But there the pleasure ends; for the fruit is both seedy and insipid. To appreciate the prickly pear one would require to meet it in an arid desert.
The sun was sinking when we set out for a final stroll at Andraitx. We were to leave early next morning, and we knew that there were countless walks we must leave unexplored.
A glory of grey and gold and orange was flushing the sky when we turned into the road that wound up the valley. The mountains that rose on either side were glowing roseate from the sunset; but under any conditions the way would have been very beautiful. It led by a _torrente_ in whose bed there was actually a trickle of water, and just beyond a picturesque bridge was a village--of no social importance probably, but assuredly of great artistic charm. The village straggling up the side of the valley was such a place as nobody ever tells one of--one of those unexpectedly picturesque spots that, with a thrill of delight, one discovers for oneself, and feels a proprietorial interest in ever after, almost as though one had invented it. We learned later that the name of the hamlet was Secoma, and that it was divided into two portions, which were known respectively as Secoma Hot and Secoma Cold.