May had arrived in Spain. It was not, however, the May of years’ past but a Spring that was somehow devoid of warmth and of joy. The flowers had begun to blossom but they were gnarled, deformed, as if the land was reflecting the mood of the people. It seemed as if the Devil had arrived in Spain and, having conducted his Inquisition, was loosening various punishments upon the country based upon the confessions that he had witnessed. The Cathedrals appeared to have been defaced, the bones of the Saints were pocked with mildew and the once dazzling Crosses in the churches were inlaid with some type of worm that had not been seen before. Sadness, like a thick band of fog, had descended upon the coastline and it moved inward untouched by any wind or plea to God for Salvation. The malfeasance of what Spain had brought upon herself was about to be bourne and the hope of any other conclusion was now but a faint prayer remembered in our winter memories. The Piper has arrived from Hamelin; and Spain, like so many before her, will be forced to pay.