In Palma something to interest or touch one was always happening. Once—it was on the first day of February—we entered the usually deserted Rambla to find a crowd composed chiefly of young men, all of the same age, gathered in front of the barracks. The majority had the sunburnt complexion of the rustic. A few were evidently of higher social standing. Many girls and a few old peasants fringed the crowd. It was the occasion of the annual drawing of lots for the enrolment of the young men of the Palma district, who were to spend their next three years in the army.

Some of the lads peered anxiously in at the closed gates of the barracks; others concealed their concern and chatted gaily with their friends. Military service in that land of sunshine is not arduous. Recruits thus drawn by lot are never sent off their native island, and to flirt with pretty maidservants on the Borne on a Sunday afternoon—which to the casual observer appears to be the leading labour of the Majorcan force—can hardly be termed hard labour. So no doubt many of the rustics were already wondering if they would not look better in shakos and crimson breeches than they did in the blue cotton and goatskins of their shepherds' dress.

At length the gates were thrown open and sergeants called upon the conscripts to enter. Many paused to wave farewells, and almost all saluted or raised their hats as they advanced to put their fortunes to the test. A few of the more smartly dressed strolled nonchalantly in, smoking cigarettes, and we guessed that they, following the native love of a gamble, had already paid a hundred crowns to the insurance company that, in the event of their drawing an unlucky number, would forfeit to the State the three hundred crowns that would purchase their exemption from the three years of service.

A period of suspense dragged past. Then a sympathetic movement of the crowd intimated the deliverance of the first two freed men, who, as they left the gate, threw high in air the couple of breakfast rolls that, with two reales, are presented to every man who has drawn a lucky number. Others relieved and hilarious followed quickly, but many pretty girls and old men waited in vain for the return of the candidates that fate had decreed were to swell the ranks of the standing army. The barracks had swallowed them up and they were seen no more. Perhaps they also had rolls and reales; perhaps they were elated at the prospect of town life; perhaps they already looked back with longing to their almond-trees and goatskins!

For the adventurous, Majorca has plenty of peaks to climb, coasts to navigate, shrines to visit, caves to explore. The distances between the known points of interest—and there are very many places still unexploited—are so easy that a tourist with only a few days at his disposal can visit the most noted parts.

The two brothers in whose interesting company we visited the Dragon Caves had only five days to spend in Majorca. But even in so brief a space of time they succeeded in seeing and in doing much. Their method of mapping out their time was so admirable that I am tempted to quote it.

On Monday night they crossed from Barcelona, arriving at Palma early on Tuesday morning. Having breakfasted on the steamer, they caught the early train for Manacor, where they lunched before driving to the caves. After dining and sleeping at Manacor they took the train on Wednesday morning to the railway terminus at La Puebla, and from there drove to the old towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. That accomplished, they journeyed by rail to Inca, where they passed the night, returning on Thursday by the morning train to Palma, where they spent the day visiting as many places of interest as possible. On Friday they drove to Sóller by way of Valldemosa, Miramar, and Deyá. Rising early on Saturday morning they drove to Fornalutx, and starting from there, climbed the Puig Mayor, getting a superb view from the summit. In the afternoon they drove back to Palma in time to catch the mail boat to Barcelona. The weather had been perfect, and they were able to carry out their well-planned expedition without interruption.

For those who enjoy gentle exploration Palma makes an admirable centre. A good pedestrian could encompass the island on foot, and a journey more full of varied scenery or among pleasanter or more unsophisticated folk could hardly be imagined. Those of less energetic nature would find much of interest within very easy walking distance.

It is almost impossible—in Palma at least—to hire mules, but driving is comparatively cheap. Every few minutes tramcars run to Porto Pi, where there is a good aquarium, with, when we saw it, a splendid display of writhing octopi.

A mile beyond the car terminus is Cas Catalá, where there is a delightfully situated hotel. Just beyond the hotel are lovely walks through the pine woods that border the sea, and pretty little bays, in one of which—that a little way past the carabineros' hut, I think—I got some nice little shells and quite a lot of sponges that had been washed up by the sea.

Genova, which is a very short walk inland from the car terminus at Porto Pi, makes an attractive point for a little excursion. In a garden off one of the by-ways is the entrance to a recently discovered cave, which is the property of the landlord of the little taverna—the Casa Morena—who discovered it when he was digging a well. The cave, though small in extent, resembles the Dragon Caves in miniature, and has beautiful stalactites and stalagmites which are both fine in form and quite unblackened by smoke.

The village church, which until lately was a favourite place of pilgrimage, has many fine altar-pieces and other paintings, and it has the rare quality of being so well-lighted that visitors are able to admire their beauties.

In one of the side chapels is a delicately modelled recumbent wax figure of a young girl. Another chapel has a small square glass case containing a representation of the Nativity that is peculiarly interesting because of the purely local dress of certain of the figures. The Virgin holding the Holy Child is seated in the centre. At her right stands an elderly man, apparently meant for Joseph. It was surely without humorous intent that the devotee who fashioned his garments garbed him in the quaint old Majorcan dress of abnormally wide blue breeches. After seeing Joseph's dress it is not the least surprising to notice that two women who are less important actors in the scene wear their hair in pigtails and the native rebozillos.

From the hill-side that rises behind the church, where the prickly pear grows in great profusion, one can enjoy a glorious panoramic view of the coast.

For slightly longer excursions diligences leave Palma almost daily for all sorts of out-of-the-way and wholly charming places, such as Esporlas, Andraitx, Lluchmayor, Sóller, Estallenchs, Calviá, and Valldemosa. And if the traveller is wise and hastens to book the front seat he will escape danger of death by compression, and be in a position to enjoy a leisurely and comprehensive view of the country.

It is well worth while, when intending to remain overnight at a town, to arrange to arrive on the eve of the weekly market. For market morning brings many quaint rural people flocking into town on panniered mules or in odd ramshackle conveyances. Sunday is the market at Pollensa, and there the traveller may see a profusion of the old men of the zouave-like breeches. San Sellas and Binisalem hold their markets on Sunday also. That of Manacor is on Monday. Artá, Montuiri, Llubí, and Porreras hold market on Tuesday. Wednesday is the day at Sineu, and Thursday at Inca, Muró, and Andraitx. Lluchmayor has Friday, and the day of the week at Palma is Saturday, when the country folk bring in the harvest of their fields and hold a little market of their own in the Plaza del Mercado, under the shadow of the high-towered Church of San Nicolas. Early in May Sóller holds a three days' fiesta, when a historic incident of the landing and repulsion of a band of piratical Moors is enacted with great spirit by the people of the town.

A hint that may prove useful to any one arriving at some remote place where there is no fonda is to ask to be directed to the schoolmaster. He is certain to know Spanish, may be pleased to meet a foreigner, and is sure to be able to recommend a lodging. It is to the courteous schoolmaster of Santañy that we were indebted for this suggestion.

Failing the presence of a schoolmaster, the civil guard is a good person to apply to. They are said to be a fine and absolutely reliable class of men. An artist friend chancing at nightfall to light upon a village where there was no inn, applied to the civil guard, who not only gave him a room in his own house, but appeared in the morning to offer the use of toilet appliances in the form of a comb and a pot of pomade.

The Balearic Islands appear to offer a good field to the entomologist. A friend who visited Majorca during February has given me this list of the butterflies and moths that, even at that early season, he saw in plenty, mostly within a few miles of Palma: Bath White, Cabbage or Common White, Red Admiral, Painted Lady, Clouded Yellow, Brimstone, Wall Brown, Holly Blue, Small Copper, Swallow Tail, and the Humming-bird Hawk Moth.

As the spring advanced and the giant poppies I had sown in November became a four-feet-high hedge, butterflies—strange, to me at least, and very beautiful—fluttered into the little garden of the Casa Tranquila, and probably not finding the poppies so luscious as their brilliant appearance had led them to expect, speedily fluttered out again. They did not make their home with us, as had the big locust that, in the late autumn, I captured when he was feasting on a moth in the shrubby field behind the convent. Bringing the prisoner home in my handkerchief, I set him on a pink ivy-geranium that flourished in one of the big green flower-pots on the veranda.

He seemed well content with his new quarters, for there he stayed all winter, taking up his position first in the tall scented verbena, and, when that lost its leaves, changing his perch to an adjacent almond-tree, as though he knew that would be the first to bloom.

Very early in the year he vanished, and we thought he had gone for good. But just as the first pale blossoms were opening in the almond groves he re-appeared, bringing with him the female of his species, and together in connubial amity they shared his old home in the almond-tree. When the pale rose-tinted blossoms had fallen, and the grey-green velvet pods of the young almonds were emerging from the crimson calyxes, the locust and his bride deserted us to seek a wider pasturage.

Though we wandered far from beaten tracks, the sole trace of reptiles encountered was an occasional discarded snakeskin. In Iviza lovely green and golden lizards and highly-varnished toy frogs in all "art" shades abounded, but we saw none of either in Majorca.

Our only insect pests were mosquitoes—who, probably recognizing an alien and attractive flavour in our blood, were a disturbing nocturnal influence until, with the aid of a few yards of mosquito netting, we succeeded in frustrating their knavish tricks. Even by day they were not invariably quiescent; but the mosquito is a gentleman. He always gives warning before attacking an enemy, and when we met in open combat, there was something of the joy of battle in the defence. According to local report, the tenure of his days should have ended with November; but it was not until a fall of the temperature about the middle of January that our assailant withdrew his battalions and left us in peace.

Though our visit was a winter one, the wild flowers were an unfailing source of pleasure. The season was unusually dry, yet I never took a country walk without finding some blossom that was new to me.

When we arrived in October the rocky slopes about Porto Pi were covered by a royal carpet of the purple autumnal crocus. The last of the sea lavender was fading, but horned poppies and chicory were in bloom. It was there, too, that in November we found the curiously shaped brown and green wild arums that are known in America as "Dutchmen's pipes," and locally referred to as frares, whose acquaintance we afterwards made at Andraitx. In April, when we left Majorca, pretty little white and lavender iris starred the ground and rich purple mallows and golden mesembryanthemums covered the rocks of Porto Pi.

The beautiful coast about Cas Catalá had a herbage of its own. Tall flowering heath, a persistently blooming plant with dark blue buttons, and delicate yellow rock roses were, as the months slipped past, succeeded by a fine display of cistus.

Throughout the whole time of our stay a constant succession of sweet lavender blossomed on the grey-green bushes. Asphodel, too, abounded. The first to open was the smaller species, with its rushy foliage and slender spikes of bloom. In January the tall rods of the poet's asphodel rose in such profusion that we were forced to give it place as the typical island flower. Forced reluctantly, I confess, for to some the odour of the tall asphodel, when growing in quantity, is far from pleasant.

It was at Sóller, that district of piquant contrasts, that we saw the delicate greenhouse maidenhair-fern growing in masses with English ivy along walls, or draping the moist sides of the water runnels.

It was at Sóller, too, that we first made the acquaintance of the ten-inch-high daisy. There was little of the character of its Scots relative, the "wee, modest, crimson-tippéd flower," in this aspiring plant. But the Balearic Islands have another form of the Bellis perennis, a lavender daisy, that sustains the family reputation for humility by cowering close to the soil.

The winter had been so dry that the flowers of early spring were disappointing. I found a few purple anemones where I had expected to see hundreds, and gleaned a handful or two of narcissus from the dry bed of the torrent where I had hoped to gather baskets full.

But with the coming of the long-hoped-for rain the earth gave up her secrets, and secrets worth knowing they proved themselves. There were amazing orchids—little round-bellied flies, so life-like that one half-expected to hear them buzz; or glorious travesties of insects that never were, some with bodies of glittering metallic blue daintily edged with brown fur, others with delicate wings of rosy heliotrope.

It was odd to find garden pets—grape hyacinths, gladiolus, iris—leading a gipsy life on those sunny slopes, and odder still to discover begonias, or even Nigella damascena, camping out, as it were. One felt inclined to demand to be told why they were shirking their obvious duty of beautifying gloomy British gardens.

The following list of the rarer Balearic plants, given me by a noted Scottish gardener, is specially interesting as showing the wide range of the island flora: Anthyllis cytisoides, Astragalus poterium, Cynoglossum pictum, Daphne vallæoides, Delphinium pictum, Digitalis dubia, Genista cineria, Hedysarum coronarium, Hedysarum spinosissimum, Helianthemum serræ, Helianthemum salicifolium, Helichrysum Lamarkii, Hippocrepis balearica, Hypericum balearicum, Lavatera cretica, Lavatera minoricensis, Leucojum Hernandezii, Linaria triphylla, Linaria fragilis, Lotus creticus, Melilotus messanensis, Micromeria Rodriguezii, Micromeria filiformis, Ononis crispa, Ononis breviflora, Ononis minutissima, Pastinæa lucida, Phlomis italica, Polygala rupestris, Scutellaria Vigineuxii, Sencio Rodriguezii, Sibthorpia africana, Silene rubella, Sonchus spinosus, Vicia atropurpurea.

Perhaps it was because wild flowers bloomed all through the months that the native children did not care to gather them, and that indifference to natural blossoms prevailed in all classes of the community. It seemed as though the Majorcans had not yet realized the decorative value of flowers. One rarely saw cut flowers used on the table or in the reception-rooms even of people on whose country estates roses and violets blossomed all the year round. I never saw flowers for sale in the big daily market, and the few clusters that in spring the countryfolk brought in to the Saturday market would scarcely have sufficed to trim one fashionable hat.

In February, when the rose-coloured blossoms of the cistus were beginning to open on the uplands, the brown-cheeked shepherd boys began to look for the young shoots of the wild asparagus, which they made into little bunches for sale, bound round with broad asphodel leaves fastened with long, sharp prickles.

Though a gourmet could hardly have taken exception to the flavour of the asparagus thus gathered, he might have objected to the size, for the shoots were seldom larger than that sold in London under the mysterious name of "sprue." But the flavour was delicious, and when one added the pleasure of gathering to the value when found, the wild asparagus was worth its weight in gold. While the season lasted we often brought in a bunch or two from our sunset strolls, and these occasions were signalized by the appearance of asparagus omelet at supper.

XXV
IVIZA—A FORGOTTEN ISLE

While the departure of the Barcelona boat lures all Palma to the mole, only a handful of spectators was assembled when, at noon on the 8th of April, the Lulio steamed westwards.

It was a fine day with a brisk head-wind. Like the high mountains around Sóller, the waves were white-crested, and for the first three hours the voyage was a delight. As the Lulio skirted the coast we enjoyed identifying the places now familiar to us by land. The little bays beyond Cas Catalá, Ben Dinat among its woods, the windmills above the town of Andraitx, and the long, high islet of Dragonera.

As the heliotrope mountains of Majorca receded into the distance, the brilliance faded. From warm azure the sea changed to purple, from purple to grey, and the wind blew keenly against us. The Lulio is only some 600 tons, and there was little shelter on the saloon deck, which is forward of the funnel. We felt inclined to envy the Ivizan passengers, who, camped on the snug lower deck, first ate strange messes, then after a brief but busy interlude of regret, curled up on their bundles and went snugly to sleep.

With us there were half a dozen men and one lady. And when the captain invited her to share the cover of the chart-house which abutted on our promenade, I envied her also until, after the dubious enjoyment of a few moments of splendid detachment from the common herd, she revealed signs of inward discomfort and fled to seek a less conspicuous position.

Before the land we had left was out of sight, two little clouds low on the western horizon were recognized as outlying islets of the Ivizan group. Then, as we gradually approached nearer, hills upon hills, promontories, more islets, appeared; and still we steadily steamed westwards. The sun sank in golds and greys behind the Ivizan heights, and still we went on through the grey gloom, past a rocky, indented coast on which we saw no sign of habitation.

Then, out of the darkness arose the vision of a town piled on an eminence—a town of unexpected beauty, for from the tranquil waters of the almost landlocked bay to the highest point it was sparkling with lights. It was Iviza, the one important town of the main island.

To the hoarse grating of her anchor chain the Lulio swung to, and through the darkness the vague outlines of rowing boats could be seen approaching.

The young boatman who was the first to accost us secured our custom, and we stepped down the accommodation-ladder into the swaying boat. Half a dozen natives followed, carrying their belongings in big cotton handkerchiefs, a form of Balearic travelling case that to me always seemed peculiarly alluring, for when not in actual service, the handkerchief-portmanteau could be folded and stowed in the pocket; or even, did occasion require, be put to other uses.

The behaviour of the boatman who rows him ashore in a new country serves the experienced traveller as symbol of the treatment awaiting him in that country. Our boatman asked one real each—twopence-halfpenny—as his fee, which was exactly the sum required of the native passengers. And that served as our token of Iviza. We would be treated with strict honesty—there was but one price either for native or stranger.

The arrival of the steamer, whose departure from Palma had attracted so little attention, was a matter of importance at Iviza. People clustered on the pier, and the steps leading to the water's edge were so densely crowded that it was difficult for those landing to find foot-room.

A burly Ivizan took the luggage, and after a cursory custom's inspection we reached the fonda, which was only a stone's-cast away. The fonda, which appeared to be the only one in the town, was delightfully situated on the harbour. The rooms allotted to us were the best in the house. Two opened from the drawing-room and one had a balcony overlooking the water. The inclusive charge was six pesetas a day—about four shillings and sixpence of English money.

Supper was in process of serving. Going downstairs, we entered the dining-room, to find one long table at which were seated about a dozen men. Judging rashly by our Minorcan experience, we classified them collectively as commercial travellers, and concluded that Iviza must be a more important place than we had imagined, if it gave employment to so many.

The meal, which revealed a lack of inspiration on the part of the cook, was served by a solitary waiter. When it was over, we went out and felt our way about the streets. The capital town of Iviza, which is built on a high rock, faces the sea. It has no back, no other side. The old town, which is surmounted by the Cathedral and the castle, is entirely surrounded by a perfectly preserved Roman wall. The newer portion of the town, which is built on land reclaimed from the sea, lies just below the principal gate of the old city.

Passing the quaint circular fish market and the vacant market-place, which consisted of a red-tiled and raftered shed, supported on white pillars and surrounded by trees, we walked up the slope leading to the great gate in the Roman wall that encircles the ancient town.

In a niche on either side of the opening stood a massive marble figure. The heads were gone and certain other members had not outlasted the ravages of the centuries, but enough still remained to show the beauty of the workmanship. From the neck-socket of the draped figure foliage was springing, and the statue of the legionary had the scarce dignified effect of carrying a bundle of fodder, so boldly had the weeds sprouted from under his right arm.

The streets within the old city walls were dark and steep and twisted. In their secretive recesses something of the atmosphere of the Middle Ages seemed still to linger.

The Ivizans go early to bed. The lights that illumed our landing had already been extinguished, and finding our progress over these tortuous steeps a protracted stumble, we groped our way back to the fonda, resigned to leaving further exploration to the morrow.

We slept soundly. When our early coffee came we drank it on the balcony as we watched two boys fishing from a boat in a shallow just beneath our windows. The bait seemed to be shell-fish, and the boy in the Carlist cap who held the rod was catching little wriggling fish as quickly as he could re-cast his hook into the water.

Then for the first time we awoke to the picturesque charm of the Ivizan's choice of material and love of colour in dress. The fishing boy wore plush trousers of a lovely pinky-fawn shade. His companion's were moss-green, and his waist scarf was scarlet. A crew of fishermen, their garments a kaleidoscope of gay hues, were breakfasting in their boat near. And along the beach beneath, a boy clad in faded blue velvet was carrying in one hand a basket of beautiful rose-coloured fish and dangling a hideously suggestive octopus in the other.

Our good friend the padre, a presbítero of Palma Cathedral, had kindly recommended us to his chosen friend, who was a beneficiado of Iviza Cathedral. So our first walk, on the morning after our arrival, led up the precipitous paths towards the superbly situated old church.

Seen by daylight the streets were vaguely reminiscent of both Palma and Mahón, without resembling either. While the whitewashed walls recalled the austere cleanliness of the Minorcan capital, the condition of the streets gave one the impression that the inhabitants subsisted chiefly upon oranges. The plenitude of balconies held more than a hint of Palma, though most of the Ivizan balconies were heavily fashioned of wood; and from many the entire family washing (which in Palma would be dried on the flat roof), even to sheets, hung out to dry. The Ivizans showed both taste and skill in floriculture. Quite a number of the balconies were prettily decorated with pot plants, from cinerarias to peonies, in full bloom.

The market was busy when we passed. Grave-looking women, with wide-brimmed white hats perched rakishly a-top the handkerchief that covered their heads, were selling oranges or vegetables. One, with a row of moist water-jars balanced on either side of the furriest donkey I ever saw, was plying the trade of water-carrier.

We reached the Cathedral during morning service, and we waited, enjoying the music and the tuneful clamour of the great wheel of bells that mingled so harmoniously with the sound of the organ, and wondering in which of the officiating clergy we would discover the friend of our friend. He also had been looking out for us, and as we, along with two old men, were the entire congregation, he had no difficulty in distinguishing us.

When Mass was over we met on the mirador outside, and though by force of nationality, religion, language, and training we ought to have been poles asunder, from almost the first moment of our acquaintance we recognised a congenial spirit in Don Pepe, as the young choristers, who clustered round, affectionately called the padre.

Under his care we re-entered the Cathedral, which, despite, or perhaps because of belonging to no known school of architecture, is very beautiful, the interior with its canopied Virgin having an inspiring sense of light. Then, accompanied by the sacristan, a grave man with a charming smile, we saw some of the treasures of the church, climbed the tower to see the comprehensive view from the top, and visited the adjacent castle, which is now used as a military barracks.

While within the fortifications we were introduced to an especially interesting specimen of the cunning traps prepared by the Romans for their unwary invaders. From one portion of the castle, which is perched high within the strong fortifications, we were guided through a long, dark, shelving passage, down, down, down, until on passing through a massive door we entered an alley, lit from above, that ended abruptly in a four-feet-high portal deep set in the great city wall, and from without partly secured by a bastion.

The ingenious plan of the ancient defenders had evidently been to leave unguarded the inconspicuous door, and when the besiegers, discovering it and imagining themselves in luck, had crept through the secret door into the alley, to shower missiles on them from the circular opening overhead. It was a shrewd device, but one hardly calculated to endear the Romans to their enemies.

Leaving the heights, we walked down towards the church of Santo Domingo, an antique building with curious red-tiled domes. The priceless treasure of this old Dominican convent is an image of Christ which for ages has been the object of great devotion. Until the last century ships on leaving or entering the harbour of Iviza were in the custom of saluting it with their flag and a shot from their cannon.

As we neared the church we saw approaching from a side street a peasant family of such attractively quaint appearance that we paused and, affecting to be admiring the prospect, waited for them to pass. They were all attired in the gala dress of the island. The sun-tanned farmer father wore a suit of old-gold embossed velvet and a purple scarf was wound about his waist. The mother wore the immoderately wide skirt gathered into a plain high-waisted bodice, the short green silk apron, the little shoulder shawl with its prettily flowered border and long fringe, and the gay embroidered head-wrap that make up the distinctive Ivizan costume. From the tip of her pigtail a brightly coloured ribbon hung down to the hem of her spreading skirts. The eldest child, a girl of eight or nine, was a diminutive facsimile of her mother. The elder boy wore a man's suit in miniature of very light blue, and a wide-brimmed yellow hat. The group tapered off with a wee boy in a quaintly cut long frock and a white Carlist cap, and a baby in bunching petticoats and a muslin cap with wings. The father, who smiled pleasantly when he saw us notice the children, carried with evident care a liqueur bottle. Moving decorously, as though bound on some important mission, they preceded us into the church.

We had paused to examine a fine old painting, and when we reached the special chapel that contained the celebrated image we found the little family already kneeling before the altar, even the youngest apparently impressed by the solemnity of the occasion.

After a few moments the father, rising from his knees and still holding the bottle, approached the padre to crave a private word with him, and they quitted the chapel together, leaving the mother and children still on their knees.

A great silver lamp, suspended from the roof, burned in front of the Cristo, and all around the walls were votive offerings—models of hearts, of legs, of arms, even of heads, and little silver figures, some in peasant dress, one in a smart frockcoat. Oddest, perhaps, of all was a pair of silver trousers.

There were medals, a fine model of a full rigged ship, a little muslin frock, another of rich satin in a glass case, all presented in token of succour prayed for and obtained in time of imminent danger to life or limb.

While we lingered, a female attendant entered the chapel carrying the liqueur bottle, and drawing down the great silver lamp, proceeded to fill its reservoir from the store in the bottle, the family, who still maintained their devotional attitude, half turning with something of proprietary interest to watch her movements.

Returning to the body of the church, we found the padre and the father of the family in earnest converse. During a recent serious illness, explained the padre, the peasant had vowed the gift of a bottle of olive oil for the sacred lamp. Now, on his recovery, his first action had been to make a little pilgrimage to the chapel, bringing his entire family to give thanks for his restoration to health and to deliver the promised gift.

The exhibition of such unquestioning faith and gratitude in this world of scepticism was inexpressibly touching. And our hearts melted and were glad with the little household. Still, though the father declared himself again robust, a sickly pallor showed beneath his tan, and when he grasped our hands in farewell his touch was ice-cold.

Walking back along the ramparts we noticed a gentleman who, though personally unknown to us, yet bore a remarkable racial resemblance to many people we had known in Britain. He was well dressed after the English fashion, wore fawn kid gloves, and though the sky was cloudless, carried a neatly rolled umbrella.

"That is the Señor Wallis, a member of an illustrious family here. They all speak English. Shall I introduce you?" asked the padre, seeing that we were interested.

To our gratification the Señor Wallis not only spoke English admirably, but also understood it perfectly.

"My grandfather came here as British Consul," he explained. "He married and settled here. My father was Consul after him. We have always spoken the English language at home."

Here then was a family, living in a remote island where they might not hear English spoken once a year, who because their ancestor had been English carefully maintained the language and traditions of their forebears. As the Boy said afterwards, it reminded one of Kipling's tale of Namgay Doola!

A little farther along, a massive figure, joyously arrayed in a suit of maize-coloured corduroy, a lilac-check shirt and a green hat, gladdened our vision.

"That is the present English Consul," said the padre, who seemed to be on good terms with everybody. "I shall introduce him to you."

The British Vice-Consul blushed when presented to genuine natives of the country he represented. His knowledge of the language was rudimentary, and after a few tentative efforts the conversation lapsed into Spanish. As the Boy said, it was quicker.

The padre had promised to call at three to take us to see the excavations in process on a slope just outside the city. And after lunch I strolled out to the fields in search of Ivizan wild flowers. Within a five minutes' walk of the town I soon gathered an armful—purple and yellow and white and yellow toad-flaxes, pink asters, blood-red poppies, big cream chrysanthemums, little blue and white iris, a handsome garlic-smelling pink flower, wild mignonette, both the tall and the dwarf asphodel, a yellow pheasant's eye, one or two unfamiliar blossoms, and, best of all, many regal spikes of the tall crimson gladioli that were growing among the green corn.

The padre was punctual to a moment, and we were soon mounting the rocky hill just beyond the city wall where the excavations were going on.

There was nothing in the appearance of the place to suggest that underneath our feet there existed Phœnician catacombs. Great spikes of the handsome evil-smelling asphodel were blooming all around, and two men in wide felt hats and abbreviated blouses, standing by some heaps of soil, were the only visible sign of the important work that was being done.

When we reached them we saw that their labour consisted of passing the earth that had been brought to the surface through a fine sifter, and that close by yawned a hole overhung by a rope running on a wheel attached to a rough tripod.

The Boy was the only one of the party daring enough to accept the invitation to descend. Leaving his coat behind, he slid down the rope and vanished through a hole in the bottom of the shaft. The younger workman followed. While we awaited their re-appearance we noticed that many bones, earth-coloured, light in weight and brittle to the touch, mingled with the mounds of refuse, and that bits of broken pottery and fragments of iridescent glass leavened the heaps.

Soon the Boy and his guide, earth-stained and perspiring, for the underground atmosphere was close and hot, scrambled their way back to the surface.

The Boy's account was that when he had swung himself down the shaft he and his guide entered the subterranean passage, feeling as though he were entering his own grave, in place of merely going to view that of other people. Passing through an outer hall, they came to a narrow chamber where, by the light of an acetylene lamp, a being looking like a gnome or a ghoul was sitting on the edge of a long stone coffin grubbing in the dust and ashes that filled it.

Resting on the rim of the coffin were the relics that he had already recovered from the debris—bits of shattered pottery, and a beautiful but mutilated statuette of terra-cotta about five inches in height.

From that cell they descended to a large chamber on a lower level, where there were many coffins and a plenitude of bones.

When in recent years three Phœnician catacombs were discovered it was found that their existence had been known to the Moors, who at some unknown date had already despoiled them of treasure, leaving traces of their appropriation in the form of broken water jars and other worthless relics. Fortunately the Moors valued only the gold, so that, in spite of the damage caused by their rough handling, a mine of precious things still remains to gladden the archæologist.

Leaving the sunny hill-side, where spring flowers were blooming among the crumbling bones of these nameless dead, we mounted to the house by the windmills, where the treasures found in the graves are primarily housed.

There also was the padre a welcome guest, and in a small dark room wonderful things were shown us. Tiny jars delicately figured; perfect vases of iridescent glass; strange bas-relief recumbent figures with stiffly extended hands; antique coins, scarabs that the Moors had bereft of their setting, ornaments that had escaped their rapacity, and old lamps enough to have satisfied even the covetous Abanazer.

It was oddly suggestive to think that, while the people who were entombed in these stone coffins thousands of years ago had known delicate arts and worn costly jewellery, their successors on the land lived in primitive dwellings and drew the water they drank in earthenware jars that in form were exact copies of those so long buried in the tombs. Truly in some things the world has not progressed!

XXVI
AN IVIZAN SABBATH

Some of the women rode mules, and sat perched high on a pile of sheepskins, their multi-coloured petticoats billowing about their neat ankles. Others were packed closely into open carts that had cushions placed low on either side of their sagging floor-matting. Many walked, accompanied by vigilant elderly relatives. And oh! how demure and decorous they all looked, with their dark hair parted in the middle and severely plastered down the sides of their rosy young faces.

An object of fervent admiration in my childhood was a pincushion made of a little china doll, whose placid head and insignificant body appeared from a widely distended skirt. And on this brilliant Sunday morning the Ivizan women and girls in their exaggerated skirts seemed to me like a procession of walking dolls.

The dresses appeared to be fashioned from any material that boasted a pattern, for the Ivizan detests a plain material. Even the velvet or plush used in the men's clothes was in many instances flowered or striped. The short broad aprons were of bright-coloured silk elaborately tucked above the hem. Their deeply fringed shawls and head wraps were bordered with wreaths of gaily tinted flowers. The chains of big oblong gold beads and elaborate gold pendants in the form of crosses and crowns gave a blatant and contradictory note to the staid costume, while the gaudy hue of the ribbon that tied the end of the pigtail and fell in long ends nearly to the hem of the skirt suggested a hint of the original Eve lurking behind all this apparent demureness. Gold buttons closely set ran from the wrist of the long sleeve, which was often of green, to the elbow. And the white sandalled shoes, whose toes were caught up by a cord bound round the ankles, had a suggestion of sabots that added a Dutch touch to the picture.

Sometimes a mother in sober garments or a smiling father in a wide hat marched past in proud chaperonage of a diffident young daughter rigged out in all the family jewellery. One girl, who enjoyed the personal care of her mother, wore a gown of old rose-spotted brocade looped up in pannier form to show a pink petticoat.

To our thinking the extreme of quaintness was reached in the person of a little maid of seven or eight, whose dress was a travesty of that of her widowed mother; with the sole difference that, while the mother's mourning garb was of unrelieved black, the kerchief and tiny shawl of the child had bordering wreaths of white flowers. As she walked slowly by, a tiny entity in over-voluminous garments, the Man declared that, despite her superhuman sobriety, and the "papa, prunes, prisms" expression of her infant lips, he felt convinced that it was with difficulty she resisted a desire to skip!

They say there are ten men for every woman on the island, and our experience of that Sunday morning inclined us to believe it. From every direction came fine strapping lads moving in droves. A distinct resemblance in the dress, taken in combination with the rakish dare-devil air with which these young bloods set their wide hats to one side and swaggered along, vividly suggested the Mexican cowboy.

In striking contrast to the expansive attire of the women, the men's dress appeared designed to accentuate their natural slimness. The trousers of velvet or plush in all manner of rich shades fitted closely to the figure except at the ankle, where they spread widely. Gaily hued shirts or short full blouse jackets, usually black or blue, were worn. Red or striped sashes were wound about their waists. Most of the hats were large and adorned with gold cords. And in addition to one necktie for use, it was customary to add a second and sometimes even a third for show.

We were sincerely sorry to find that nine o'clock, the hour when we were due at the hotel for coffee, had rushed upon us. When we came out again on our way to visit the Museum, the streets about the market were busy with a moving throng resplendent in colour.

For the moment the girls appeared to have got rid of their chaperons and were parading about in quartettes, sextettes, even septettes, their tightly pleated pigtails streaming stiffly behind, their hands, holding pocket-handkerchiefs heavily edged with substantial crochet lace, sedately crossed in front.

One group that particularly rejoiced the artistic soul of the Man was made up of four demure damsels who walked in a row, the tallest at one end, the others decreasing in height till the row ended in a dear dot. Their outlines were so much alike that they had the effect of having been stencilled in a diminishing scale.

It was perhaps only to be expected that wherever one saw a bevy of girls a corresponding cluster of men would not be far distant. Yet we rarely saw them address each other.

The modern etiquette of peasant courtship in Iviza runs on strict though simple lines. A plenitude of suitors being assured, it is the maiden who makes the selection. The admirers of a marriageable girl wait for her outside the church door on Sunday. When she leaves Mass the one who has the premier claim attaches himself to her, and trots beside her for the first portion of the homeward journey, then at a fixed point or within a stated time-limit he gives place to the second, and so on until the number is exhausted. If any man seeks to exceed his allotted space, or in any other way tries to transgress the unwritten law, pistols may flare and knives are apt to spring! Apart from this the people of Iviza are peaceable, and on all points moral and virtuous. It must be admitted that certain of the more frolicsome spirits still keep up the old custom of saluting the maidens of their choice with a charge of rock salt fired at the ankles. And it is devoutly to be hoped that the unwieldy masses of petticoats serve at least one useful purpose by shielding their wearers from the saline missiles of love's artillery.

When we had reached the Cathedral square, where the Museum is situated, we found the door open and the custodian—in whom we were surprised to recognize one of our fellow-guests at the fonda—waiting to receive us.

Though the Museum at Iviza has been in existence for little more than two years it already contains a notable collection of Phœnician, Roman, Byzantine and Moorish remains. To an archæologist, inspection of the contents would have been a special treat. Even to us who had little knowledge of the subject it was intensely interesting.

Within the centre cases and in the glass-doored cupboards that line the walls were many things whose worth we could not venture to guess. The varied assortment of coins seemed especially valuable. One jar found during the process of excavation had contained over six hundred specimens.

Among the other exhibits were several primitive bas-relief figures with abruptly out-jutting hands, resembling those we had seen on the previous day. Two figures had the hands clasped on the bust over something suggesting a loaf, and one had a ring through the nose.

Many of the vases and slender vials from the tombs were beautiful, both in outline and in decoration. And we saw a particularly fine scarab that had been found in one of the stone coffins immediately after our visit to the catacombs on the previous afternoon.

In the second room were some curious old documents and certain of the more bulky exhibits. And from a top shelf a row of skulls of these bygone races grinned down upon us creatures of to-day, as though their owners found something ludicrous in the idea of a special house being set apart in which to guard as treasures what to them had been but everyday possessions.

When we left the Museum the padre, with kindly thought and subtle intuition of what is most likely to interest the stranger in a foreign land, took us a-visiting. First he introduced us to the only professional artist on the island, who like everybody else in the place seemed a special friend of our sponsor.

And in the artist of this far-off southern islet we rejoiced to meet the romantic painter of fiction—the picturesque hero one reads about but rarely has the good fortune to encounter.

Don Narciso—his very name was in keeping—was young, buoyant of spirit, charming in manner, and enthusiastic regarding art. He had a thick curly black beard, abundant wavy black hair. He wore a becoming blouse, and his loosely knotted silk tie was of amarilla silk.

The painter welcomed us cordially, and took us into his studio, where he was at work upon a full-length portrait of a bishop who had been a native of the island.

Round the walls were brilliant studies both in figure and landscape. We had been living close to Nature for six months. It was a pleasure to breathe again the studio atmosphere. In less than two minutes the three artists were deep in discussion of kindred interests. Their nationalities might be different, but Art has only one language. Names—Velasquez, Goya, and others of more recent date—were bandied between them, the while the padre and I sat dumbly attentive.

When we were leaving, Narciso took us into the artistically unkempt garden attached to the studio, and from the line of orange-trees beyond the old well plucked a spray heavy with the luscious blossom. This he presented to me with a grace that dignified the sprig into a bouquet. And we all parted with promise of an early reunion.

A few yards farther down the road we passed a group of ladies, whose smart Paris hats and modern raiment, seen in that land of quaint attire, gave the wearers an oddly foreign look.

"Son la familia Wallis," murmured the padre, as he raised his hat to them.

The house of the padre, our next place of call, was just beyond the seminary where the students whom we had seen leaving the Cathedral in their robes of black and scarlet were undergoing their thirteen years of probation before entering the Church.

The padre's home in all its appointments impressed us as being exactly suited to the quiet refinement of its master. From the windows one gained a superb view of the rippling waters of the landlocked harbour and of the undulating country beyond.

We had the honour of meeting the padre's mother, a lady who, though shrunk a little by weight of years, was still hale and bright. And his sister, the widow of a distinguished officer. And his niece, who was so vivacious and charming, that when she waved to us from her balcony as we left we wondered if the novio who was standing in the street, whispering love up to a maiden in a mantilla on the balcony just beneath hers, had not made the mistake of a floor!

It was evidently the feast-day of one of our fellow-guests at the hotel, for at the close of the midday meal a tray of dainty Spanish sweetmeats in frilled paper cases was passed round—being handed, evidently by special instructions, to us also.

When we had helped ourselves we bowed indecisively towards the farther end of the table, saying vaguely—in the hope that our gratitude might reach the donor—"Muchos gracias, señor." The other señores were quick to indicate the benefactor, who flushed a little as he acknowledged our thanks.

While lunch was being served a dark silent young man, who was one of the regular company, several times left his place, and from our seats at table we saw him go to the open front door of the hotel and glance up and down the street, as though on the look-out for somebody. Seeing him return alone for the third time, we whispered hints of a dilatory sweetheart.

But when the eagerly expected guest did appear it was not some graceful doña, but a little baby girl, the sleeves of her white frock tied with black ribbon, who was carried in in the arms of a stout peasant nurse. As the padre told us later, our taciturn fellow-guest was the postmaster, who had lost his young wife, and this was their babe come to pay the bereaved father her weekly visit.

When we went out in the afternoon the townsfolk were promenading under the shade of the Alameda, but the payeses had all vanished—gone back to the rural homes whither we would like to have followed them. With the disappearance of the quaint figures the charm seemed to have vanished, and when we met our new friend the sacristan we cajoled him into going for a stroll along the watercourses that intersect the reclaimed land beyond the harbour.

These are a curious feature of a delightfully curious country. On either side of the raised centre path were broad ditches full of clear water, whose yellow sand was speckled with black shell-fish. Shoals of little fish darted in and out among the rushes, and on every patch of floating weed a tiny frog sat and croaked.

The fertile ground on either side of the ditches was divided into small holdings, or feixas as they are locally called. And there mixed crops of fruit and vegetables flourished abundantly. Vines trained to trellises bordered the water, and at frequent intervals tall whitewashed gateways, reached by little bridges and quite unsupported by walls, reared their gleaming bulk with something of the self-conscious air that might be attributed to whited sepulchres. As in Majorca, the small agriculturists appeared to live in the towns. There were no dwellings on the feixas, though a few had sheds from which issued the grunts of unseen animals.

The evening glow was on the hills when we left the watercourses and followed a track that led between fields of full-bearded rye dotted with blood-red poppies towards a picturesque white-walled noria. In the shadow of the trees close by the old Moorish well, which was encircled by a trellised vine, sat the farm folk enjoying the rest of the Sabbath. A guest in a mantilla was with them.

So far from resenting our intrusion they welcomed it. Seeing that we were interested in the working of the noria, the farmer ran forward and, seizing the long wooden donkey shaft, set the wheel revolving, and made the circle of buckets (which were not fashioned of earthenware as in Majorca, but formed from lengths of hollowed pine stem—a peseta each they cost, he told us) discharge their contents for our benefit, the primitive machinery, which made laudable objection to Sunday labour, protesting the while with groans and squeaks.