We were
going northward over the track which had brought us southward to Madrid
two weeks before, and by and by the pleasant levels broke into rough
hills and hollows, strewn with granite boulders which, as our train
mounted, changed into the savage rock masses of New Castile, and as we
drew near the village of Escorial gave the scene the look of that very
desolate country. But it could not be so gloomy in the kind sunlight as
it was when lashed by the savage storm which we had seen it cowering
under before; and at the station we lost all feeling of friendlessness
in the welcome of the thronging guides and hotel touters.
Our ideal was a carriage which we could keep throughout the day and use
for our return to the train in the afternoon; and this was so exactly
the ideal of a driver to whom we committed ourselves that we were
somewhat surprised to have his vehicle develop into a motor-omnibus, and
himself into a conductor.
When we arrived at the palace some miles off, up a winding way, he
underwent another change, and became our guide to the Escorial. In the
event he proved a very intelligent guide, as guides go, and I really
cannot now see how we could have got on without him.
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