hatred of the peoples whom she had formerly conquered. This Spain had her abode there on the summit of Murjajo, and she died and is buried there in the lowering sarcophagus of Santa Cruz, while beside it France smiles gaily and enticingly to the sea and to the neighboring Arab hamlets, to the whole world, laughing from the whiteness and brilliance of her silvery town with its colored crowds, its green, inviting lawns and its lovely parks and squares.
France does not care for the eternal walls and towers of Santa Cruz. She seeks only to assure to the coming generations a happy life in this sunny land; and, when natives grumble and threaten, the Frenchman answers, with a smile and an innate, unfeigned gaiety:
"Gentlemen, we spend lavishly and we bring you a true civilization and culture without which your 'liberty' would be that of the animals that roam your forests and would result in the same strife that is their lot."
And having said this, he turns away to sing a snatch of some gay Parisian song.
