V
Somewhere At A Junction Our Train Had Been Divided And Our Car, Left The
Last Of What Remained, Had Bumped And Threatened To Beat Itself To
Pieces During Its Remaining Run Of Fifteen Miles.
This, with our long
retard at Santa Elena, and our opportune defense from the depraved
descendants of the reforming
German colonists by the Guardias Civiles,
had given us a day of so much excitement that we were anxious to have it
end tranquilly at midnight in the hotel which we had chosen from, our
Baedeker. I would not have any reader of mine choose it again from my
experience of it, though it was helplessly rather wilfully bad;
certainly the fault was not the hotel's that it seemed as far from the
station as Cordova was from Madrid. It might, under the circumstances,
have, been _a_ merit in it to be undergoing a thorough overhauling of
the furnishing and decoration of the rooms on the _patio_ which had
formed our ideal for a quiet night. A conventionally napkined waiter
welcomed us from the stony street, and sent us up to our rooms with the
young interpreter who met us at the station, but was obscure as to their
location. When we refused them because they were over that loud-echoing
alley, the interpreter made himself still more our friend and called
mandatorially down the speaking-tube that we wished _interiores_ and
would take nothing else, though he must have known that no such rooms
were to be had.
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