Into the plain beyond Burgos, through the sunless glare of before-dawn; upon a soft-padding ass that cast no shadow and made no sound; well upon the stern of that ass, and with two bare heels to kick him; alone in the immensity of Castile, and as happy as a king may be, rode a young man on a May morning, singing to himself a wailing, winding chant in the minor which, as it had no end, may well have had no beginning. He only paused in it to look before him between his donkey's ears; and then--"_Arre, burra, hijo de perra!_"--he would drive his heels into the animal's rump. In a few minutes the song went spearing aloft again .... "_En batalla-a-a temero-o-sa-a_....!" I say that he was young; …
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