52 Unexplored Spain 
ride through the scrub the whirr of the red-legged partridge 
sends an involuntary hand to the gun. They may await another 
day. At dusk we ride into the whitewashed patvo, just in time 
to sally forth and get a flighting woodcock between gun and 
lingering glow of the setting sun. 
For no precious hours are wasted in the Coto Dofiana. Next 
day at early dawn, maybe, if the lagoon be our destination, or 
at any rate after a timely breakfast, off starts again the eager 
cavalcade, be it in quest of red deer or less noble quarry. Then 
all day in the saddle, from drive to drive, dismounting only to 
lie in wait for a stag, or trudge through the sage-bushes after 
partridge, or flounder through the boggy soto, beloved of snipe, 
with intervening oases for the unforgotten bocadillo. 
If Vazquez be kind, he will take you one day to crouch with 
him behind his well-trained stalking-horse, drawing craftily 
nearer and nearer to where the duck sit thickest, till, 
straightening your aching back, you have leave to put in your 
two barrels, as Vazquez lays low some twenty couples with one 
booming shot from his four-bore, into the brown. 
But one morning surely a visit must be paid to the sandhills. 
Caraballo will call you at 4 a.M., and soon after you will be jogging 
over the six or eight miles which separate the “ Palacio” from 
that morning rendezvous of the greylag. The stars still shine 
brightly as you dismount at the foot of the long stretch of 
dunes. A few minutes’ trudge will deposit you in a round hole 
dug deep in the dazzling white expanse the day before; for a 
hole too freshly dug will expose the damp brown sand from 
below, staining the spotless surface with a warning blotch, and 
causing the wary geese to swerve beyond the range of your No. 1 
shot. It is still dark as you drop into your hole. Gradually the 
sky grows greyer and lighter, till the sun rises from the round 
yellow rim of the blue morning sky. Who shall describe the 
magic thrill of the first hoarse notes falling on your straining 
ear? The temptation to peep out is strong, but crouching deep 
down, you wait till the mighty pinions beat above you, and the 
first wedge of eight or ten sails grandly away in the morning sun. 
You judge them out of shot. But surely this second batch is 
Jower down? Are they not close upon you? Why then no 
response to your two barrels? Was the emotion too great, or 
have you misjudged the speed of that easy flight or its distance 
