I could not honestly say that the stations or the people about them were
more interesting than in La Mancha. But at one place, where some
gentlemen in linen jackets dismounted with their guns, a group of men
with dogs leashed in pairs and saddle-horses behind them, took me with
the sense of something peculiarly native where everything was so native.
They were slim, narrow-hipped young fellows, tight-jerkined,
loose-trousered, with a sort of divided apron of leather facing the leg
and coming to the ankle; and all were of a most masterly Velasquez
coloring and drawing. As they stood smoking motionlessly, letting the
smoke drift from their nostrils, they seemed somehow of the same make
with the slouching hounds, and they leaned forward together, giving the
hunters no visible or audible greeting, but questioning their will with
one quality of gaze. The hunters moved toward them, but not as if they
belonged together, or expected any sort of demonstration from the men,
dogs, and horses that were of course there to meet them. As long as our
train paused, no electrifying spark kindled them to a show of emotion;
but it would have been interesting to see what happened after we left
them behind; they could not have kept their attitude of mutual
indifference much longer.
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