The Coto Dofiana 31 
distant Ronda mountains seen through a framework of stone- 
pines, across seventy miles of sandy dunes, marismas, and 
intervening plains. After a couple of hours we skirt the famous 
sandhills, innocent of the slightest dash of green, which for some 
inscrutable reason attract, morning after morning, at the first 
tinge of dawn, countless greylag geese to their barren expanse and 
on cwinieli: st Dios quiere, toll hall be levied ere long. The 
marismas and long lagoons are covered here and here with 
SPANISH IMPERIAL EAGLE 
black patches crawling with myriads of waterfowl, to be 
described after supper by the careful Vazquez as muy pocos, wn 
salpicon—a mere sprinkling. Their names and habits, are they 
not written, with the most competent of pens, in this very 
volume? We stop, perhaps, for a first deer-drive on our line of 
march. How thrilling that sudden rustle in the brushwood! 
Stag is it, or hind, or grisly porker? As we approach the 
“Palacio” we see the spreading oak on which perched, 
contemptuous and unsuspecting, the imperial eagle, honoured 
this year by a bullet from King Alfonso’s unerring rifle. As we 
