Bullones, whose familiar profile is still far ahead.

By noon we are close to the long fog bank, through a rift of which we discern Gibraltar close at hand. Heavy clouds rising like enormous mountains with great blue precipices and sunlit crests tower over the Spanish coast. We fly above this fantastic world, contemplating for a long time that curious phenomenon, the halo of the aeronauts. The shadow of our Dornier skims over the white clouds surrounded by an iridescent nimbus. It is beautiful to watch, but the land and the sea have vanished from our view, and a little beyond Tarifa we cut off our gasoline and glide down through an opening to the sea visible below. Leaving the fantastic cloud-scenery above, we skim along below a yellow ceiling of mist that descends lower and lower, until we are at length traveling only forty yards or so above the water. We pass Cape Trafalgar at that altitude.

Thus we follow the coast so closely that we wave greetings to the people in the houses close to shore, whom we can distinctly see rush out of doors and watch us sweep past, with consternation on their faces. As the clouds grow blacker, we descend even lower, until we almost graze the sails of the little fishing boats dancing like shells upon the waves.

Thus we enter the Bay of Cádiz at five minutes before one, dropping lightly on the water, where the waves, probably irritated at our presumption, shake us horribly.

We have made the flight from Melilla to Cádiz in exactly four hours, covering about five hundred kilometres on account of following the coast so closely, and using seven hundred and ten litres of gasoline. We are welcomed by the commander and admired by the people on the quay. These are the rewards of our 'heroism,' which actu

ally has consisted most of the time in shifting our baggage back and forth to trim the plane.

A few drinks, a few more drinks, a sound night's sleep, and at noon next day we prepare to leave for Larache. Just as we are warming up our motors, a dense fog falls and forces us to wait for the fog is an enemy it is no use trying to fight. An hour and a half later the mist lifts a little, and we seize the opportunity to get under way and rise above it. Soon we are looking down upon the coast of Spain and part of the Straits, but as we turn toward Larache we find our way blocked by a dense cloud-curtain resting almost on the very water. Repeating our manœuvre of the day before, we skim along at a height of only twenty metres above the

waves.

We pass Cape Spartel and approach Arzila, but the cloud-curtain grows denser, completely cutting off the horizon, and greeting us with a dash of rain and hail that stings our faces like needles. In view of this we decide to diverge to Ceuta, where we shall find a much safer port for our hydroplane than at Larache.

Moreover, it is clearer in that direction. We double Cape Spartel and pass Tangier. A little later, one hour and twenty-five minutes after leaving Cádiz, we reach our emergency destination, settling lightly on the water, where we are perfectly protected from the rising storm.

We stop at Ceuta forty-eight hours, while the formalities attending our landing in French territory are being settled. Our departure on the morning of the sixth is delayed by the fouling of one of our anchors. After trying for some time to free it, we are forced to cut the cable and abandon it. We waste an hour over this, and do not get away until ten. Drifting clouds obscure the east. In passing through the Straits of Gibraltar for the third time we are becoming specialists in the geography of the Straits- we strike occasional squalls, but with the wind behind we make rapid headway, and pass Tangier some twenty minutes later. From this point onward the sea is an intense blue under an almost cloudless sky. We discern every detail of the scenery along the coast, particularly between Tarifa and Punta Alcazar, where the sea is really a narrow river some twelve kilometres wide and either coast lies almost within hand's reach.

As we pass above Tangier, 'the lost city,' we feel like weeping over it as Jesus wept over Jerusalem. At this point we take a short cut across the mountains at Cape Spartel, then coast along the beaches of the Atlantic, which stretch ahead of us indefinitely in a straight golden line. Directly beneath us the surf beats on them, breaking in constantly changing, lacy patterns of white foam. These Atlantic billows are not like those in the Straits. They are long and majestic, and move forward in steady succession like well-trained troops. We are now above the true ocean, where nothing interrupts the line of vision on our right except thousands and thousands of kilometres of water.

Skirting the coast, we barely make out Arzila through a patch of haze. The only details of the little town we can distinguish are Raisuli's palace, built close to the sea, and a few minarets of mosques. We make a ground landing at the Larache aerodrome, where we expect to meet several aviator acquaintances, but find it deserted - the birds have flown. Just after we rise again and are heading toward the sea, we receive a radiogram from them saying, 'Left for Casablanca at 11.10.'

From this point onward there is

little to see. The coast is a level plain over which dense mists are gathering.

On the whole, life on board is quiet enough. Every man is busy with his task. Whenever an opportunity offers I take a photograph. Thus hour follows hour in enforced silence so far as conversation is concerned, because we cannot make our voices heard above the roar of the motors.

Meanwhile the waves roll on interminably below us, and the coast sweeps past in a smudge of fog broken now and then by a clear interval, where the sand glitters like a mirror under the mounting sun. Occasionally we make out a river, whose mouth is marked by a clearly defined circle of muddy sea. We discern vaguely Sali and Rabat, and at a quarter past twelve pass in front of the Sultan's capital, three quarters of an hour after leaving Casablanca. From this point the level coast is dotted with white cottages and cultivated fields, and looks much more prosperous than our own zone around Larache. A moment later Casablanca appears, its magnificent harbor clearly defined by the black lines of its breakwaters etched on the mirror of the sea.

We glide downward, make a circle over the handsome city, and drop on the water at precisely 1 P.M. Here we find friends and Spanish officers waiting to receive us.

The following morning we are greeted by a cloudy sky but a smooth sea. Circling over the city to warm up our motors, we bear away straight toward Mogador, farther down the coast. The scenery is much as it was the previous day - long lines of white surf rolling up on a long, sandy beach. It is a gloomy, gray day. To the westward a thick fog bank hugs the ocean, and a lighter mist veils the land, except here and there where a silvery or a white speck indicates a stream or a cluster of houses. We pick up radio connections with Casablanca and send a dispatch thanking Marshal Lyautey for our cordial reception by the French authorities, and receive a 'Bon Voyage' from him in reply.

Far to the southward clouds tower like snowy summits in the heavens, and when we pass Mazagan, at five minutes past eleven, its little port and black rocks with the waves beating on them are distinctly visible. But as the sky clears the wind rises, blowing us off the coast and retarding our progress.

When we left Casablanca we expected to make Mogador, three hundred and thirty kilometres to the southward, in two and one-half hours; but evidently we are scheduled for a longer trip. In fact, it is one o'clock, three hours after leaving, before we make out Mazagan with its characteristic island. Fifteen minutes later we are directly over it.

Here we have a disagreeable surprise. We have looked forward confidently to finding a perfectly smooth harbor at this point, but instead the little port is boiling like a cauldron with the waves that drive in through its open entrance. We should prefer to remain in the air, if that were possible. We circle and circle without finding a likely place to take the water, and as a last resort decide to descend under the lee of a little vessel in one of the undulations of the bay.

It is a decidedly wet and bumpy 'landing,' and, when our motors slow down, a little tug that makes directly toward us occasionally vanishes from our sight between the billows. With great difficulty we finally make fast to a buoy, leap for our lives into the arms of a swarthy boatman who comes to our assistance, and are pulled ashore, where we find the entire population of Mogador awaiting us, with the authorities in front. Meanwhile our hydroplane is tossing and pitching with such

violence that we can hardly pay attention to anything but the all-important question, 'Can she stand the test?'

Our boat survives the buffeting, however, and this morning we find the sea, doubtless wearied with its violent exercise yesterday, in deep repose. Nevertheless, a long low swell catches us the moment our plane is towed out of the protected harbor. We take off hurriedly just after the sixth wave is right behind us and before the seventh has quite arrived. In fact, the latter gives us a little boost into the air.

I draw a sigh of satisfaction when I see the minarets of the little mosques under our wings. At last we are safely away from Mogador. Already the surf is dashing against the island as if furious because we have escaped its clutches. It is ten minutes before nine. We steer two hundred and fifty degrees south-southwest with the wind from the first quadrant directly behind us, and head straight for Cape Juby, some three hundred and sixty miles, or five hours' flying, down the coast. We bear out to sea, leaving Cape Sim on our left, with a brisk wind steadily carrying us forward. Soon the coast sinks out of sight. We are over the high seas. Alone at last! Our whizzing propeller is a nearly transparent mist in which the sun traces golden flashes. We catch sight of a vessel, a rare object in these waters, and imagine for a moment that it is one of our warships, possibly stationed on this desert coast to pick us up in case we are forced to land. But when we pass over it, at a height of some fifteen hundred feet, we see it is but a modest merchant vessel, and it soon vanishes in the murk behind.

So here we are poised over the sea. America to the right, but a little distant; Africa, from which God save us, to the left; and the whole Atlantic Ocean straight ahead.

I study the horizon and reflect that distance does lend enchantment to the view. For these blue horizons are enchanting. They draw us steadily on, but never wait for us to overtake them. My attention is attracted from behind. I turn around and see the smiling face of Mas. He thrusts a sandwich and a bottle of Rioja into my hand. It is half-past ten, and breakfast is served.

Two hours have passed since we saw land - it will be an hour more before we see it again; and in precisely three hours, just as we had calculated, the coast looms in sight - a low, featureless line in the southeast. On the right we pick up the Canary Islands. At the end of six hours' flying we are over Cape Juby. The waters look wrinkled, and the Spanish colors fly over the post. Beyond, as far as the eye can see, stretch the sands of the desert. [The author's account of his flight from Cape Juby to Las Palmas was never published.]

At precisely one we are in the air, and make a circle over the aviation field, waiting for the little squadron of Breguets that is to accompany us to Teneriffe. A great crowd has gathered below to bid us Godspeed. We circle several times above the plain, expecting every moment to see the characteristic little clouds of dust that indicate that our tiny companions have started. Twenty minutes pass. Finally one of the little dust-clouds rises, as if saying, 'I'm off!' Then another follows. A moment later we are all over the sea a glorious sunny mirror. Gran Canaria

slips away behind us, and Teneriffe's outline grows more distinct ahead. When fifteen miles from the other island, we pass a little sailing vessel that makes a great demonstration of joy at seeing us. She fires a gun and burns blue lights, but speedily falls behind, for we are moving at seventy miles an hour and she at five miles. Forty minutes after leaving Las Palmas we are over Teneriffe. Below us lies the town, its great bull ring setting the seal of Spain upon the place. A heavy cloud-cap conceals El Teyde almost completely. Our little companions merely salute the city and speed off toward the aviation grounds at Arico, lying in the folds of the mountains some thirty-five miles beyond. We take to the water. Ah, this is a port for you. Where shall we settle? We circle and circle in vain search for a landing. At last I shut off the gas and take a chance. Masts fly past my field of vision. A big wave rolls below, which we miss by a quick glide upward, settling on the water a few feet from a steamer tied at the wharf. A noisy ovation greets us. The landing is crowded with people; sirens shriek on every vessel in the harbor; thousands of handkerchiefs wave in the air.

I will not tire you with our festivities in Teneriffe - the dance at the Casino, the dance at the Yacht Club, the banquet at the City Hall, and a beautiful drive across the Island, where we visit incomparable Orotava, and contemplate respectfully lofty El Teyde.

'Ahora! (Now!)' The cripple sitting beside me raised himself on his crutch, which he pressed carelessly against my knee. 'The coward, he's yellow,' he murmured as he sank back into his

seat.

'Ahora!' The cripple had jumped up again. 'Bravo! Well done! Wonderful! Bravo, Bienvenido!' he shouted at the man in the arena.

The matador had plunged his sword between the bull's shoulder blades with a single thrust; the big black beast rushed wildly past him, while Bienvenido jumped lightly aside. The bull charged again, but again the matador dodged. Once more the animal surveyed his adversary, stamped the ground, and threw back his head, roaring hoarsely. Blood was streaming from his eyes and nose, and fire flashed from his eyes. He lowered his head for another attack, but his knees gave way. Slowly and painfully he raised himself and turned toward the smiling matador; but suddenly the fire in his eyes died out, and he sank to earth, quivering in every muscle. The roar of applause and the tumult of the crowd drowned the music as the matador bowed again and again.

'Why don't you give the fighter a hand? Why no applause? How can you remain cold and unmoved after seeing such an impressive and glorious performance?'

As he spoke, the cripple gripped my hand so tightly that I almost yelled

with pain. What strength this wrinkled gray old man possessed. All his battered bones were shaking, and he was dressed in shabby clothes quite out of place in the expensive seat he occupied.

I hardly saw the next bull that was being led into the arena, for my attention was entirely fixed on the cripple beside me.

'You were once a bullfighter yourself,' I said to him.

His eyes gleamed and sparkled as he replied, 'And a matador too. This disfigured body of mine was once as tense and slender as Bienvenido's down there. You see in me' - and here he threw back his head - 'one of the first great bullfighters that Mexico produced; the very first, in fact - the one who competed with the greatest matador in Spain and beat him. Galanteador the Suitor was my fighting name. I earned it on account of the way I courted bulls, and I lost that name when I courted and won a woman. My fame and reputation were all the greater because I was a Mexican, born and bred, and because I learned my skill in Mexican arenas. We sons of Montezuma have inherited strength, courage, grace, and determination from our ancestor, but we have no colonies as the Spaniards have. Out on our wide prairies we raise fighting bulls and bullfighters, but of the thousands who dream of a successful career in the arena only a few attain the goal. Thirty years ago you could count the famous matadors on the fingers of your two hands, and I, I was one of them. I