From the
inside of the ring came a muffled roar like the tide.
Vidal, El Bizco and Manuel, chagrined that they could not go in,
continued on their way, passed Las Ventas and took the road to
Vicalvaro. The south wind, warm and sultry, laid a white sheet of dust
over the fields; along the road from different directions drove black
and white hearses, for adults and children respectively, followed by
gigs containing mourners.
Vidal indicated the house: it stood back from the road and seemed
abandoned. It was fronted by a garden with its gate; behind extended
an orchard planted with leafless saplings, with a water-mill. The
orchard-wall was low and could be scaled with relative facility; no
danger threatened; there were neither prying neighbours nor dogs; the
nearest house, a marbler's workshop, was more than three hundred
metres distant.
From the neighbourhood of the house could be made out the East
cemetery, girded by arid yellow fields and barren hillocks; in the
opposite direction rose the Bull Ring with its bright banner and the
outlying houses of Madrid. The dusty road to the burial-ground ran
between ravines and green slopes, among abandoned tile-kilns and
excavations that showed the reddish ochre bowels of the earth.
After a minute examination of the house and its surroundings, the
three returned to Las Ventas.
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