WITH BASQUES AND MOORS 167 



sat at the oars. Stroke was called Prospere, the 

 other D'Artagnan. I vaguely resented D'Artag- 

 nan, although we were within hail of Gascony, 

 for London actor managers had been a little 

 prodigal of musketeers the preceding winter, and 

 it was irritating to find the swashbuckler even in 

 a little boat off the Spanish frontier. As a matter 

 of fact, though the name is far from uncommon 

 in the south-west corner of France, I fancy that 

 the whole trio went by nicknames, for which, like 

 most southern races, the Basques have a perfect 

 mania, continually ignoring the names given at 

 their baptism. 



We soon got clear of that beautiful little harbour, 

 passing beneath a rocky archway, from the sum- 

 mit of which several sportsmen were fishing with 

 rods of great length, and the men rowed to a spot 

 about two miles out, opening up a fine view of the 

 Spanish mountains to the south. I had thought 

 the promise made by Gitouche somewhat sug- 

 gestive of the nearness of Gascony, but it was 

 warranted by the results, for during the next two 

 hours we caught rather more than six dozen fine 

 whiting. The bait was fresh sardine, and the 

 men used, for professionals, surprisingly fine gut 

 tackle. 



These Basques are light-hearted fellows, fond 

 of the English, the geese that lay them golden 

 eggs until the advent of yet better layers from 



