{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_50044/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_50044","id":"gutenberg_50044","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50044","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Romance","Category: Short Stories","Short stories, Spanish -- Translations into English","Spain -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL, TOLEDO]\n\n\n\n\n ROMANTIC LEGENDS\n OF SPAIN\n\n _By_\n GUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER\n\n TRANSLATED BY\n CORNELIA FRANCES BATES\n AND\n KATHARINE LEE BATES\n\n NEW YORK\n THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.\n PUBLISHERS\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1909\n BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY\n\n DEDICATED\n TO\n A SHINING MEMORY\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nA word regarding the circumstances under which this translation was made\nwill be pardoned by all children of dear mothers.\n\nMrs. Cornelia Frances Bates (1826-1908), a graduate of Mount Holyoke in\nthe days of Mary Lyon and the widow of a Congregational minister, took\nup the study of Spanish at the age of seventy-one. Until her death ten\nyears later, the proverbial ten years of \u201clabor and sorrow,\u201d her Spanish\nreadings and translations were a keen intellectual delight. Her Spanish\nBible, from which she had committed many passages to memory, was found\nat her death no less worn than her English one. Even a few hours before\ndying, she repeated in Spanish, without the failure of a syllable, the\nShepherd\u2019s Psalm and the Lord\u2019s Prayer.\n\nSo youthful was her spirit that, of the various modern Spanish works\nwith which she became acquainted, nothing fascinated her so much as\nBecquer\u2019s strange, romantic tales. The wilder they were, the brighter\nwould be the eager face, under its soft white cap, bent over the\nfamiliar little green volumes and the great red dictionary. Seeing the\npleasure she took in these legends and learning that no complete English\ntranslation existed, I suggested that we unite in a \u201cBecquer Book.\u201d Her\nfull share of the work was promptly done; mine was delayed; and the\nvolume--which we had meant to inscribe to my sister--becomes her own\nmemorial.\n\nGratitude for helpful suggestions is due to the late Mr. Frederick\nGulick of Auburndale, Mass., formerly of San Sebastian, and to Se\u00f1orita\nCarolina Marcial, formerly of Seville and now of Wellesley College.\nEspecial and most cordial acknowledgment is made of the critical reading\ngiven the entire manuscript by Miss Alice H. Bush\u00e9e of the _Colegio\nInternacional_, Madrid.\n\n K. L. B.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\nPREFACE v\n\nGUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER xi\n\nFOREWORD 1\n\nMASTER P\u00c9REZ THE ORGANIST 5\n\n _A Tale of Seville_\n\nTHE EMERALD EYES 23\n\n _A Legend of the Moncayo_\n\nTHE GOLDEN BRACELET 32\n\n _A Tale of Toledo_\n\nTHE RAY OF MOONSHINE 40\n\n _A Tale of Soria_\n\nTHE DEVIL\u2019S CROSS 52\n\n _A Legend of the Eastern Pyrenees_\n\nTHREE DATES 72\n\n _Reminiscences of Toledo_\n\nTHE CHRIST OF THE SKULL 93\n\n _A Legend of Toledo_\n\nTHE WHITE DOE 105\n\n _A Legend of Aragon_\n\nTHE PASSION ROSE 126\n\n _A Legend of Toledo_\n\nBELIEVE IN GOD 137\n\n _A Legend of the Montagut Valley in Tarragona_\n\nTHE PROMISE 151\n\n _A Legend of Soria_\n\nTHE KISS 163\n\n _A Tale of Toledo_\n\nTHE SPIRITS\u2019 MOUNTAIN 179\n\n _A Legend of Soria_\n\nTHE CAVE OF THE MOOR\u2019S DAUGHTER 189\n\n _A Legend of Fitero_\n\nTHE GNOME 196\n\n _A Tale of the Moncayo_\n\nTHE MISERERE 214\n\n _A Legend of Fitero_\n\nSTRANGE! 226\n\n _A Story of Madrid_\n\nWITHERED LEAVES 239\n\n _A Phantasy_\n\nTHE SET OF EMERALDS 244\n\n _A story of Madrid_\n\nTHE TAVERN OF THE CATS 252\n\n _An Idyl of Andalusia_\n\nALL SOULS\u2019 NIGHT 266\n\n _In Madrid_\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nTHE CATHEDRAL, TOLEDO _Frontispiece_\n\n PAGE\n\nTHE CATHEDRAL, SEVILLE 8\n\nA CITY SQUARE, TOLEDO 32\n\nTHE BRIDGE OF TOLEDO 40\n\nCLOISTER OF SAN JUAN DE LOS REYES 74\n\nTHE VISAGRA GATE 94\n\nA MOORISH WINDOW 126\n\nTHE MONASTERY OF MONTSERRAT 146\n\nAN ANCIENT CASTLE 156\n\nPALACE OF CARLOS V, TOLEDO 164\n\nA MOUNTAIN PASS 182\n\nA MOUNTAIN GROTTO 190\n\nGIRLS AT THE FOUNTAIN 198\n\nA MONASTERY COURT 216\n\nA SE\u00d1ORITA 246\n\nA RUINED CLOISTER 266\n\n\n\n\nGUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER\n\n\nThe writer of these tales was a young poet, oppressed by illness, care\nand poverty. His brief life held many troubles. Born in Seville,\nFebruary 17, 1836, of a distinguished family that came to Andalusia from\nFlanders at about the end of the sixteenth century, he was but five\nyears old, the fourth of eight little sons, when he lost his father. The\nbereavement was greater than anyone knew, for Don Jos\u00e9 Dominguez\nBecquer, a genre painter of repute, could have given this imaginative\nchild, a genius in germ, parental sympathy and guidance in an unusual\ndegree. Less than five years later, the mother died, and the disposition\nof the orphans became a puzzling problem for relatives and friends.\nGustavo, who had already attended the day school of San Antonio Abad,\nwas admitted, through the efforts of an uncle, to the _Colegio de San\nTelmo_, a naval academy, maintained by the government, on the banks of\nthe Guadalquivir. This famous school of Seville was originally founded\nby the companions of Columbus in gratitude to St. Elmo, patron of\nmariners. Here Gustavo found a friend of congenial tastes, Narciso\nCampillo, with whom he composed and presented before their admiring\nmates what Se\u00f1or Campillo, who also made a name for himself in Spanish\nletters, has described as \u201ca fearful and extravagant drama.\u201d But Gustavo\nhad enjoyed barely a year of this new life when Isabella II suppressed\nthe academy, bestowing building and grounds on her newly wedded sister,\nthe Duchesse de Montpensier. Visitors to modern Seville know well the\n_Palacio de Santelmo_, with the fountains playing in its marble courts,\nwith its gardens of orange trees, palms and aloes, of trellised roses\nand luxuriant tropic shrubs; but who gives a thought there to the exiled\nboy thrown again, at the age of ten, upon the chances of the world?\n\nHis godmother, Do\u00f1a Manuela Monchay, opened her doors to the waif, and\nin her comfortable home he dwelt for the next eight years. His schooling\nwas over, but he read his way through Do\u00f1a Manuela\u2019s library and, at\nfourteen, entered the studio of a Seville painter; here for two years he\ntrained his talent for drawing. Then he changed to the rival studio,\nthat of his father\u2019s brother, who was sufficiently impressed by the\nlad\u2019s literary promise to have him taught a little Latin. Meanwhile his\ngodmother, childless and well-to-do, was urging him to adopt a\nmercantile career. Had he consented, it is supposed that she would have\nmade him her heir, and his manhood, instead of the exhausting struggle\nit was for bread and shelter, might have been, from the worldly point of\nview, prosperous enough. But the visionary youth, who, says his friend\nCorrea,[1] \u201chad learned to draw while he was yet learning to write,\nwhose unbounded passion for reading had given him wider horizons than\nthose of book-keeping, and who could never do a sum in mental\narithmetic,\u201d would not betray his ideal. While his prudent godmother was\nmaking her own plans for his future, he was composing with Campillo the\nopening cantos of an epic on _The Conquest of Seville_, or wandering\nalone on the banks of the Guadalquivir, his \u201cmajestic B\u00e9tis, the river\nof nymphs, naiads and poets, which, crowned with belfries and laurels,\nflows to the sea from a crystal amphora.\u201d In the shade of the white\npoplars he would lie and dream \u201cof an independent, blissful life, like\nthat of the bird, which is born to sing, while God provides it with\nfood, ... that tranquil life of the poet, which glows with a soft lustre\nfrom generation to generation.\u201d And when that life should be over, he\nsaw his grateful city, the Sultana of Andalusia, laying her poet down\n\u201cto dream the golden dream of immortality on the banks of the B\u00e9tis,\nwhose praise I should have sung in splendid odes, in that very spot\nwhere I used to go so often to hear the sweet murmur of its waves.\u201d His\npensive fancy loved to picture that white cross under the poplars whose\ngreen and silver leaves, as they rustled in the wind, would seem to be\npraying for his soul, while the birds in their branches would carol at\ndawn a joyous resurrection hymn. And when the river reeds and the wild\nmorning-glories, his favorite \u201cblue morning-glories with a disk of\ncarmine at the heart,\u201d hovered over by \u201cgolden insects with wings of\nlight,\u201d should have grown up about the marble, hiding his time-blurred\nname with a leafy curtain, what matter? \u201cWho would not know that I was\nsleeping there?\u201d And so, to escape commercial drudgery and realize these\nfair visions, the young Andalusian, at eighteen, the mid-point of his\nlife, with no more than sufficed for the costs of the journey to Madrid,\nstarted forth on his quest of glory.\n\nIt may truly be said of Becquer that, like Hakluyt\u2019s staunch old\nworthies, he was \u201ccontent to take his adventure gladly.\u201d Nobody ever\nknew how narrow were the straits of those first years in Madrid. He had\nto turn his hand to anything, from odds and ends of journalism to a\nday\u2019s job of fresco-painting. Homesick, hungry, ill, he kept through it\nall a brave buoyancy of spirits and a manly reticence as to his\nsufferings. \u201cHe was never known,\u201d testifies Correa, \u201cto complain of his\nhard life or his physical distresses, nor to curse his fate. Silent as\nlong as he was unhappy, he would find voice only to express a moment\u2019s\npleasure.\u201d He made fun of his troubles, which he, more easily than\ngrosser souls, could indeed forget in the ecstatic contemplation of\nbeauty or in giving form to the crowding fantasies that clamored in his\nbrain. A friend, more concerned over his privations than was Becquer\nhimself, found him a position as copyist in an office of one of the\nstate departments at a salary of one hundred and fifty dollars a year.\nThe poet, more out of gratitude for the intended kindness than from any\nsense of personal relief, for he would rather starve body than mind,\nundertook the irksome employment. But the national finances, under the\ndrain of the Carlist wars and the popular uprisings and official\ncorruption of Isabella\u2019s disastrous reign, had become so embarrassed\nthat economy in the public service was imperative, and Becquer was\npointed out--perhaps, after all, by his good angel--for a victim. In the\n_Direcci\u00f3n de Bienes Nacionales_, as in other departments, superfluous\nmen were to be weeded out. The Director, as chance would have it, came\ninto the office one day when all the clerks were gathered about\nBecquer\u2019s stool, eagerly looking over his shoulders, lost in admiration\nof the sketches that his facile pen was turning off. The Director,\njoining the group and peering with the rest, demanded: \u201cWhat is this?\u201d\nNot recognizing the voice, the culprit, absorbed in the joy of art,\ninnocently answered: \u201cThis is Ophelia, plucking the leaves from her\ngarland. That old uncle is a grave-digger. Over there\u201d--At this point\nthe awful silence smote his senses and he looked up only to meet the\nverdict: \u201cHere is one that can be spared.\u201d\n\nBut although Becquer thus failed to serve his country with proper zeal\nin the only direct opportunity she afforded him, the touch of the\ncapital, with its sense of impending crisis, its call for patriotic\nleadership, had given a new turn to his dreams. Or perhaps it would be\ntruer to say that the Gothic cathedrals, old castles and ruined abbeys\nso abundant in Castile, though not in the Crowned City itself, had\nfastened the hold of the feudal world, with its military ideals, upon\nhis imagination. In these days he longed--or fancied that he longed--to\nbe \u201ca thunderbolt of war,\u201d to exert a mighty influence on the destinies\nof Spain, so that every revolution of the future might be, as it were, a\npersonification of himself, but most of all he indulged his musings in\nthe glorious picture of a warrior\u2019s death and burial. He would have\nchosen, his \u201cthirst for triumphs and acclaim assuaged, to fall in\nbattle, hearing as the last sound of earth the shrill clamor of the\ntrumpets of my valiant hosts,--to be borne upon a shield, wrapped in the\nfolds of my tattered banner, emblem of a hundred victories, finding the\npeace of the grave in the depths of one of those holy cloisters where\ndwells eternal silence and to which the centuries lend majesty and a\nmysterious, indefinable hue.\u201d And then the artist in him revelled in all\nthe detailed beauty of that visioned tomb \u201cbathed in dusky shadow,\u201d on\nwhich his statue, \u201cof richest, transparent alabaster,\u201d with sword on\nbreast and couchant lion at the feet, was to sleep an august sleep under\nthe hushed watch of long-robed, praying angels.\n\nMeanwhile, bad lodging and uncertain fare were telling on his delicate\nconstitution. In one respect, Becquer was always fortunate--in friends.\nEarly in his Madrid life he had won the faithful affection of Correa,\nanother young literary aspirant leading a hand-to-mouth existence, but\nof vigorous physique and practical capabilities. When in the third year\nof his struggle Becquer fell seriously ill--\u201chorribly\u201d ill, says\nCorrea--this devoted comrade not only nursed him through, but, finding\namong the poet\u2019s papers a long legend purporting to be an East Indian\ntradition, managed to get it published in _La Cr\u00f3nica_,--the beginning\nof success. This legend, _The Chieftain of the Crimson Hands_, has to do\nwith the expiation of a fratricide by a pilgrimage up the Ganges to its\nfar sources in the Himalayas, that in the most secret of those sacred\nsprings the clinging bloodstains might be washed away. But after forty\nmoons of weary travel across the broad plains of India up into the very\nshadow of the dread Himalayan wall, a law of the pilgrimage was broken,\nand Vishnu could no longer shield the slayer from the wrath of Siva,\nwho, himself the Destroyer, resents all other destruction as an\ninfringement on his great prerogative.\n\nAnother Indian subject, _The Creation_, on which Becquer had tried his\nhand with a peculiarly light, ironic touch, yielded a more\ncharacteristic result. The fable tells how Brahma, utterly bored by the\ncontemplation of his own perfections, took to chemistry. The astonished\ncherubs fluttered on their thousand-colored wings about the smoking,\nroaring tower where the Deity had his laboratory and where his eight\narms and sixteen hands were all kept busy with managing his test-tubes\nand retorts, for he was shaping worlds to people space. But one day,\ntired of his experiments, he went out to take the air and, for all his\nomniscience, absent-mindedly failed to lock the door. In swarmed the\ncherubs, ripe for mischief, and lost no time in turning everything\ntopsy-turvy. They flung the parchments into the fire, pulled the\nstoppers out of the flasks, overturned the great glass vessels, breaking\nnot a few of them and spilling their contents, and wound up their\nmeddling by blowing a ridiculous, soap-bubble planet of their own. This\nimperfect globe, all awry, with flattened poles and with contradictory\nelements, heat and cold, joy and grief, good and evil, life and death,\nat war within itself, went rolling so grotesquely on its axis, that the\npeals of cherubic laughter brought Brahma hurrying back. In his vexation\nhe was about to crush that preposterous, misformed world, our world, but\nthe appealing cries of the celestial children moved him to let them toss\ntheir absurd toy out into the ether among his own beautiful,\nself-consistent, harmonious spheres. Ever since, the cherubs have been\ntrundling it about the sky, to the amazement of the other planets and\nthe despair of us poor mortals; but it will not last. \u201cThere is nothing\nmore tender nor more terrible than the hands of little children; in\nthese the plaything cannot long endure.\u201d\n\nIt was not literature like this that the Spanish periodicals were\nseeking in the stormy fifties. It was a time of the keenest political\nstrife, when even poets and novelists were bought by one party or\nanother and made to fight in the midst of the newspaper arena. But no\nextremity could bring Becquer to be a politician\u2019s tool. \u201cIncapable of\nhatred,\u201d says Correa, \u201che never placed his enviable powers as a writer\nat the service of animosity ... nor was his noble character fitted for\nadulation or assiduous servility.\u201d Yet in his own way he played the\npatriot by earnest effort, continued unceasingly throughout his life, to\nassist in recording by pen and pencil the architectural beauties and\ndevout traditions of Spain before these should have utterly perished\nunder the march of progress. Putting politics out of his mind as a\nmatter of little moment, Becquer undertook, with a few kindred spirits,\nwhat might have proved, with adequate support, a monumental work on the\nSpanish churches. As it was, there appeared only one volume, to which he\ncontributed the Introduction, the chapters on the famous Toledo\nmonastery, _San Juan de los Reyes_, and a number of drawings. In his\nstory _Three Dates_, more descriptive than narrative, we catch a few\nfleeting glimpses of him, always with his sketch-book, pursuing his\nartistic and arch\u00e6ological researches in Toledo. A similar errand, in\nall probability, took him to Soria, an ancient city peculiarly rich in\nmedi\u00e6val buildings, situated on the Douro, to the north-east of Madrid.\nIn Soria he found several of his legends and, less fortunately, a wife,\nCarta Est\u00e9ban y Navarro. The marriage, which took place about 1861, soon\nresulted in separation. Becquer retained possession of the children, two\nbaby boys, for whom he tenderly cared, as best he could in his Bohemian\nlife, until the last.\n\nIt would seem to have been the unwonted sense of an assured income that\ngave him courage to undertake the support of a wife, for in this year\n1861 his constant friend Correa obtained for him a position on the staff\nof a new Madrid daily, _El Contempor\u00e1neo_, a journal into whose labors\nhe threw himself with a zest far beyond his strength and which he came\nto love with a touching enthusiasm. \u201c_El Contempor\u00e1neo_ is not for me a\nnewspaper like any other; its columns are yourselves, my friends, my\ncomrades in hope or disappointment, in failure or triumph, in joy or\nbitterness.\u201d It was in _El Contempor\u00e1neo_ that many of his legends\nappeared. But even as he thus became more and more closely identified\nwith the life of Madrid, homesickness grew upon him for his own\nAndalusia \u201cwith her golden days and luminous, transparent nights,\u201d--for\nhis own Seville, \u201cwith her Giralda of lace-work mirrored in the\ntrembling Guadalquivir, ... with her barred windows and her serenades,\nher iron door-screens and her night watchmen that chant the hour, her\nshrines and her stories, her brawls and her music, her tranquil nights\nand fiery afternoons, her rosy dawns and azure twilights,--Seville, with\nall the traditions that twenty centuries have heaped upon her brow, with\nall the pageantry and festal beauty of her southern nature, with all\nthe poetry that imagination lends to a beloved memory.\u201d\n\nHe re-visited Seville, if _The Tavern of the Cats_ can be taken as\ntestimony, at about this time, and may so have renewed intercourse with\nhis family, for in 1862 his next older brother, Valeriano, who,\nfollowing in their father\u2019s path, had entered on a promising career as a\npainter of Andalusian types, came to him in Madrid. Valeriano, too, was\nof frail physique; he, too, had been unhappy in his marriage; yet the\nbrothers affectionately joined such forces as they had and set up, with\nthe little children, a makeshift for a home. But in a year or two some\nwasting illness, apparently the early stages of consumption, forced the\npoet to leave \u201cthe Court\u201d and seek renewal of health in the mountain\nvalley of Veruela. During this sojourn he gathered several legends of\nthe Moncayo, that precipitous granite wall--known to Martial as the\nhaunt of \u00c6olus--which bars Old Castile from Aragon and divides the basin\nof the Douro, the river of Soria, from that of the Ebro, the river of\nSaragossa. To Becquer its snowy crests looked \u201clike the waves of a\nmotionless, gigantic sea.\u201d But the main literary result of that\nretirement is found in the series of eight exquisite letters, _From My\nCell_, the high-water mark of Becquer\u2019s prose, sent back to _El\nContempor\u00e1neo_. In these he gives a vivid, humorous account of his\njourney, by rail to Tudela, by diligence to Tarazona, and by mule up the\nMoncayo to Veruela, in whose walled and towered old Cistercian abbey he\nfound an austere refuge. He had his Shakespeare with him and his Byron,\nbut the event of the day, in the earlier weeks of his banishment, was\nthe arrival of the mounted postman with _El Contempor\u00e1neo_. He could not\nwait for it in the Gothic cloisters, but would wander halfway down the\npoplar avenue to the Black Cross of Veruela and, seated at its foot on\none of the marble steps, would wait sometimes the afternoon long\nlistening for the far-off beat of the horse\u2019s hoofs. The journal came\nto him like a personal greeting from the life he had left behind. He\nloved even the odor of the damp paper and the printer\u2019s ink, an odor\nthat brought back to him \u201cthe incessant pounding and creaking of the\npresses\u201d and all the eager activity of those hurrying nights in which\nthe words \u201ccame palpitating from the pen.\u201d But with sunset the feverish\nmemories of Madrid fell from him and his thoughts took on the serenity\nof faith, \u201cthe faith in something grander, in a coming, unknown destiny\nbeyond this life, the faith in eternity.\u201d Again he found himself\ndreaming of death, but not now of a poet\u2019s cherished grave beside the\nGuadalquivir, not now of a great patriot\u2019s tomb in some sublime\ncathedral, but of a mound in a village burial-plot, forgotten under\nnettles, thistles and grass. Long tormented by insomnia, it seemed sweet\nto him to slumber in such untroubled peace, \u201cwrapt in a light cloak of\nearth,\u201d without having over him \u201ceven the weight of a sepulchral stone.\u201d\nAs the mountain air brought strength, he began to ramble over the\nMoncayo, sketching and gathering up traditions, while through _El\nContempor\u00e1neo_ he passionately urged the claims of the past, and\nproposed the state organization of arch\u00e6ological expeditions in groups\nmade up of an artist, an architect and a man of letters, to explore the\nprovinces for their hidden, perishing traces of that bygone Spain of\nRoman, Visigoth, Moor, mailed knight and saintly vision. Bent, as ever,\non doing his part in this unprized service, he wrote out, in the quiet\nand leisure that had been so seldom his, masterly descriptions of the\nmarket-place of Tarazona, and of the peasant-women of the Amazonian\nhamlet of A\u00f1\u00f3n. In the sixth letter he narrates, with a pen almost\nunendurably graphic, the recent doing to death of a reputed hereditary\nwitch, a wretched old woman whom the superstitious Aragonese peasants\nhad, in very truth, hunted to a peak of the Moncayo off which, bleeding\nfrom stones and knives, she had been thrust down the precipice. In the\nseventh and eighth letters he goes on to relate, in his most attractive\nmanner, two local legends of witchcraft,--one of the necromancer who\nbuilt in a night the castle of Trasmoz, and one of the pious priest who\nexorcised the witches that had come, in course of time, to make its\nruined tower their tryst, only to have his work undone by the girlish\nvanity of his niece. She tampered with the holy water and restored to\nthe witches the freedom of the castle in return for their kind offices\nin scrambling down her chimney, gray cats, black cats, all manner of\ncats, the night before a festival, and stitching up for her such\nfascinating finery that she forthwith won a husband.\n\nHis brother followed Becquer to Veruela and together they made trial of\nthe neighboring Baths of Fitero in Navarre, but they were in Madrid\nagain by 1865, often sorely put to it in the effort to carry the costs\nof their little household. If one of the children fell ill and a doctor\nmust be called in, a friend might be entreated for an emergency loan of\nthree or four dollars; but as a rule these invalid brothers bore their\nburden unassisted. Valeriano drew woodcuts for such market as he could\nfind, talking, says Correa, of \u201cthe great pictures he would paint as\nsoon as he could get the canvases,\u201d and Gustavo translated the trashy\nFrench novels that were in demand, writing, in the intervals of such\nhack work, an occasional fantasy of delicate beauty, as _Withered\nLeaves_, and ever looking forward to the time when he should have golden\nhours of calm in which he might give his higher and more mystical\nconceptions fitting utterance. Twice it seemed as if the way were\nopening. Isabella\u2019s last prime minister, Luis Gonz\u00e1lez Bravo, became\ninterested in the poet and made him censor of novels. Becquer\nimmediately availed himself of the comparative leisure thus afforded to\ngather together a volume of his poems, which Gonz\u00e1lez Bravo was\nproposing to print at his own expense. Then burst the long-gathering\nstorm of 1868, the genial, unprincipled queen was dethroned, and her\nprime minister of literary tastes fled to the frontier with such\nprecipitation that the precious manuscript entrusted to his keeping was\nlost. Becquer, with that scrupulous honor well known to his friends,\npromptly resigned his censorship; Valeriano\u2019s pension for the study of\nnational types was withdrawn; and the year 1869 saw them again in\nstraits. Yet they took daily comfort in their close brotherly love and\ntheir artistic sympathies, even though, in those troublous times, their\njoint enthusiasm for the beauties of Toledo once landed them in jail.\nThey were then temporarily residing, with their little family, in their\nfavorite city, \u201cthe city sombre and melancholy _par excellence_,\u201d and\nhad sallied out, one evening, to contemplate its ghostly charms by\nmoonlight. Their disordered dress, long beards, excited gestures and\neager talk roused the suspicion of a brace of Civil Guards, who, drawing\nnear and overhearing such dangerous terms as \u201capses, squinches, ogives,\u201d\nseized the conspirators without more ado and lodged them, for their\nfurther artistic illumination, in one of the historic dungeons of\nToledo. The next morning the editorial room of _El Contempor\u00e1neo_\nresounded with merriment as a letter from Becquer went the rounds,--a\nletter \u201call full,\u201d says Correa, \u201cof sketches representing in detail the\nprobable passion and death of both innocents.\u201d The entire staff united\nin a written protest and explanation to the jailer, and it was long\nremembered in that office with what shining eyes and peals of laughter\nthe delivered prisoners, on their return, set out their adventure in\nexuberant wit of words and pencil.\n\nThe second opportunity came with the founding of that now famous\nperiodical, _La Ilustraci\u00f3n de Madrid_; but it came too late. Becquer\nwas appointed director and looked to for regular contributions, while\nValeriano furnished many of the illustrations. The management had large\nschemes in hand, including a _Library of Great Authors_, for which\nBecquer began a translation of Dante. But now, when a certain degree of\nfreedom, relief and recognition had been at last attained, the strained\nand fretted cord of life gave way. The first number of _La Ilustraci\u00f3n_\nappeared January 12, 1870. On September 23, Valeriano died in his\nbrother\u2019s arms. On December 22, the poet, surrounded by devoted friends\nto whom, with his failing breath, he commended his children, sank\nexhausted into that mysterious repose on which, from boyhood, his\nmusings had so often dwelt. But his mocking destiny was not yet content.\nHis body was buried in one of those crowded city cemeteries always so\nrepugnant to him, San Nicol\u00e1s in Madrid. His younger son did not live to\nmanhood; the elder, his namesake, went wrong.\n\nHis loyal friends, after raising what money they could for the children,\ngathered together and published in three small volumes the most\ncharacteristic of Becquer\u2019s writings,--a series of lyrical poems,[2] the\nletters _From My Cell_,[3] some legends and tales of unequal merit;[4]\nand a few miscellaneous articles[3] on architecture, literature and the\nlike.\n\nThe _Rimas_ almost immediately established Becquer\u2019s fame. He is counted\nto-day among the chief lyrists of the nineteenth century. These poignant\nsnatches of song pass, in theme, from life to love and from love to\ndeath. So far as they give, or purport to give, a history of the poet\u2019s\nheart, they tell of passion at first requited, then of estrangement and\ndespair. It is supposed that a certain Julia Esp\u00edn y Guill\u00e9n, later the\nwife of Don Benigno Quiroga Ballesteros, a living Spaniard of\ndistinction, figures to some extent in the _Rimas_. The house of her\nfather, director of the orchestra in the _Teatro Re\u00e1l_, was a resort of\nyoung musicians, artists and men of letters, and here Becquer, during\nhis earlier years in Madrid, was a frequent guest. There seems little\ndoubt that his youthful devotion was given, though in silence, to this\ndisdainful brunette, but the poems likewise tell of a love \u201cof gold and\nsnow.\u201d There is a green-eyed maiden, too, whom he essays to comfort for\nthis peculiarity,--though, indeed, eyes of jewel green, strangely\nfascinating, are not rare in Spain. He may have had her in mind in\nwriting his legend of _The Emerald Eyes_. And one of the most beautiful\nlyrics follows out the slight thread of story in _Three Dates_,\nrepresenting the poet as gazing night after night up from that ancient\nToledo square, with its glorified rubbish-heap, to the ogive windows of\nthe convent where the nun who had so thrilled his imagination was\nimmured. Over the spirit of Becquer, to whom the immaterial was ever\nmore real than the material, no one actual woman held lasting sway. He\ntells the truth of the matter in his eleventh lyric:\n\n I am black and comely; my lips are glowing;\n I am passion; my heart is hot;\n The rapture of life in my veins is flowing.\n For me thou callest?--I call thee not.\n\n Pale is my forehead and gold my tresses;\n Endless comforts are locked in me,\n Treasure of hearthside tendernesses.\n \u2019Tis I whom thou seekest?--Nay, not thee.\n\n I am a dream, afar, forbidden.\n Vague as the mist on the mountain-brow,\n A bodiless glory, haunting, hidden;\n I cannot love thee.--Oh, come! come thou!\n\nBecquer himself was wont to ascribe the premature death of poets, that\nbreaking of the harp while yet the golden chords have yielded but their\nleast of melodies, to a restless fulness of life, the imprisoned vapor\nthat bursts the vessel. This appears with pathetic emphasis in the\n_Introduction_ that he wrote, not long before his death, for a projected\nvolume of tales and fantasies. He felt that he must rid his fevered\nbrain of their importunity, but he had begun to give expression to only\none, _The Woman of Stone_, when death broke the magic pen. The story\nremains a fragment,[5] not passing beyond its opening pages of rich\nartistic description, nor can its course be clearly conjectured even\nthough in _The Kiss_, and in the closing passages of his _Literary\nLetters to a Woman_, his imagination hovers about the theme. He left,\nlike Hawthorne, many tantalizing titles that suggest the greatness of\nour loss. That drama on \u201cThe Brothers of Sorrow,\u201d that poem on the\ndiscovery of America, those Andalusian novels on \u201cThe Last Minstrel,\u201d\n\u201cTo Live or Not to Live,\u201d those Toledo legends on \u201cThe Foundress of\nConvents,\u201d \u201c_El Cristo de la Vega_,\u201d \u201cThe Angel Musicians,\u201d those\nfantasies on \u201cLight and Snow,\u201d \u201cThe Diana of the Indies,\u201d \u201cThe Life of\nthe Dead,\u201d--these are but a few of the conceptions that teemed in his\nmind but found no outlet to the world. It seemed to his friends, who\nknew the man and had listened to his marvellous talk, that the scanty\nhandful of tales they could collect from newspapers here and there made\nso inadequate a showing as almost to misrepresent his powers. Yet\nhowever thwarted and wronged by circumstance this harvest of his\nimagination may be, it deserves attention if only for its finer and less\nobvious qualities. Becquer charges himself with a melancholy\ntemperament, and seldom, in fact, do we find in these pages the blither\nhumor playing in _The Set of Emeralds_; but the occasional morbidness of\nhis tone is due rather, it would seem, to illness and its consequent\ndespondency than to any native quality of his thought. He deals too much\nin the horrible for modern taste, but he cannot claim, like Baudelaire,\nto have \u201cinvented a new shudder.\u201d Tales grounded in folk-lore are bound\nto contain elements of superstitious terror, and the affinity of these\nlegends in that respect is rather with German balladry and the earlier\nromanticism in general than with the genius of Poe. Becquer\u2019s truer\nkinship is with Hawthorne, whose outer faculty of close and minute\nobservation is his as well as the inner preoccupation with mystery and\nsymbol. All the senses of this young Spaniard seem to have been of the\nfinest, his exquisite hearing entering into these tales as effectively\nas his keen sight; but he is most himself in presence of the dim, the\nfugitive, the impalpable. His mind was essentially mystical. His\nreligion was not without its human side. In brooding on the inequalities\nof the mortal lot, he finds comfort in the reflection: \u201cGod, though\ninvisible, yet holds a hand outreached to lift a little the burden that\npresses on the poor.\u201d But faith in him was of the very fibre of\nimagination. He even lent a certain sympathetic credence to the medi\u00e6val\nlegends of the Church, at least when the spell of Toledo was upon him.\n\u201cOutside the place that guards their memory,\u201d he says, \u201cfar from the\nprecincts which still preserve their traces, and where we seem yet to\nbreathe the atmosphere of the ages that gave them being, traditions lose\ntheir poetic mystery, their inexplicable hold upon the soul. At a\ndistance we question, we analyze, we doubt; but there faith, like a\nsecret revelation, illuminates the spirit, and we believe.\u201d In a letter\nfrom Veruela to a lady of his acquaintance, a letter relating a brief\nbut lovely legend[6] of an appearance of the Virgin, he asserts: \u201cOnly\nthe hand of faith can touch the delicate flowers of tradition.\u201d \u201cGod,\u201d\nhe elsewhere says, \u201cis the glowing, eternal centre of all beauty.\u201d\n\nThe writer of these tales described himself thus: \u201cI have a special\npredilection for all that which cannot be vulgarized by the touch and\nthe judgment of the indifferent multitude. If I were to paint\nlandscapes, I would paint them without figures. I like the fleeting\nideas that slip away without leaving a trace on the understandings of\npractical folk, like a drop of water over a marble shelf. In the cities\nI visit, I seek the narrow, lonely streets; in the edifices I examine,\nthe dusky nooks and corners of the inner courts, where grass springs up,\nand moisture enriches with its patches of greenish color the parched\ntint of the wall; in the women who impress me, the hint of mystery that\nI think I see shining with wavering light in the depths of their eyes,\nlike the glimmer of a lamp that burns unknown and unsuspected in the\nsanctuary of their hearts; even in the blossoms of a shrub, I believe\nthere is for me something more potent and exciting in the one that\nhides beneath the leaves and there, concealed, fills the air with\nfragrance, unprofaned by human gaze. In all this I find a certain\nunsullied purity of feelings and of things.\u201d\n\nBecquer goes on to admit that this \u201cpronounced inclination sometimes\ndegenerates into extravagances.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nIn dim corners of my mind there sleep, hidden away and naked, the\nfreakish children of my imagination, waiting in silence for art to\nclothe them with language that it may present them in decency upon the\nstage of the world.\n\nMy Muse, as fruitful as the marriage-bed of poverty, and like those\nparents who bring to birth more children than they have means to rear,\nis ever conceiving and bearing in the mystic sanctuary of the\nintelligence, peopling it with innumerable creations, to which not my\nutmost effort nor all the years that are left to me of life, will be\nsufficient to give form.\n\nAnd here within me I sometimes feel them, all unclad and shapeless as\nthey are, huddled and twisted together in confusion indescribable,\nstirring and living with a dim, strange life, similar to that of those\nmyriad germs which seethe and quiver in eternal generation within the\nsecret places of the earth, without winning strength enough to reach the\nsurface and transform themselves, at the kiss of the sun, into flowers\nand fruits.\n\nThey go with me, destined to die with me, leaving no more trace than is\nleft by a midnight dream which the morning cannot recall. On certain\noccasions and in face of this terrible idea, there rises in them the\ninstinct of life, and trooping in formidable though silent multitudes\nthey seek tumultuously a way of escape from amid the shadows of their\ndwelling-place forth to the light. But alas! between the world of idea\nand the world of form yawns an abyss which only the word can bridge, and\nthe word, timid and slothful, refuses to aid their efforts. Mute, dim\nand powerless, after the unavailing struggle they fall back into their\nold passivity. So fall, inert, into the hollows by the wayside, when the\nwind ceases, the yellow leaves which the autumn storm blew up.\n\nThese seditions on the part of the rebel sons of my imagination explain\nsome of my attacks of fever; they are the cause, unrecognized by\nscience, of my excitements and depressions. And thus, although in ill\nestate, have I lived till now, walking among the indifferent throngs of\nmen with this silent tempest in my head. Thus have I lived till now, but\nall things reach an end, and to these must be put their period.\n\nSleeplessness and fantasy go on begetting and producing with monstrous\nfecundity. Their creations, crowded already like the feeble plants of a\nconservatory, strive one with another for the expanding of their unreal\nexistences, fighting for the drops of memory as for the scanty moisture\nof a sterile land. It is needful to open a channel for the deep waters,\nwhich, daily fed from a living spring, will at last break down the dike.\n\nGo forth, then! Go forth and live with the only life I can give you. My\nintellect shall supply you with nutriment enough to make you palpable; I\nwill clothe you, though in rags, so that you need not blush for\nnakedness. I would like to fashion for each one of you a marvellous\nstuff woven of exquisite phrases, in which you could fold yourselves\nwith pride, as in mantles of purple. I would like to engrave the form\nthat must contain you as the golden vase which holds a precious ointment\nis engraved. But this may not be.\n\nAnd yet, I need to rest. I need, just as the body through whose swollen\nveins the life-blood surges with phlethoric force, is bled, to clear my\nbrain, inadequate to the lodging of so many grotesqueries.\n\nThen gather here, like the misty trail that marks the passing of an\nunknown comet, like atoms dispersed in an embryonic world which Death\nfans through the air, until the Creator shall have spoken the _fiat lux_\nthat divides light from darkness.\n\nI would not that in my sleepless nights you still should pass before my\neyes in weird procession, begging me with gestures and contortions to\ndraw you out from the limbo in which you lead these phantom, thin\nexistences into the life of reality. I would not that at the breaking of\nthis harp already old and cracked the unknown notes which it contained\nshould perish with the instrument. I would interest myself a little in\nthe world which lies without me, free at last to withdraw my eyes from\nthis other world that I carry within my head. Common sense, which is the\nbarrier of dreamland, is beginning to give way, and the people of the\ndifferent camps mingle and grow confused. It costs me an effort to know\nwhich things I have dreamed and which have actually happened. My\naffections are divided between real persons and phantasms of the\nimagination. My memory shifts from one category to the other the names\nof women who have died and the dates of days that have passed, with days\nand women that have existed only in my mind. I must put an end to this\nby flinging you all forth from my brain once and forever.\n\nIf to die is to sleep, I would sleep in peace in the night of death,\nwithout your coming to be my nightmare, cursing me for having doomed you\nto nothingness before you had been born. Go, then, to the world at whose\ntouch you came into being, and linger there, as the echo which life\u2019s\njoys and griefs, hopes and struggles, found in one soul that passed\nacross the earth.\n\nPerchance very soon must I pack my portmanteau for the great journey. At\nany moment the spirit may free herself from the material that she may\nrise to purer air. I would not, when this moment comes, take with me, as\nthe trivial baggage of a mountebank, the treasure of tinsel and tatters\nthat my Fancy has been heaping up in the rubbish chambers of the brain.\n\n\n\n\nROMANTIC LEGENDS OF SPAIN\n\n\n\n\nMASTER P\u00c9REZ THE ORGANIST\n\n\nIn Seville, in the very portico of Santa In\u00e9s, and while, on Christmas\nEve, I was waiting for the Midnight Mass to begin, I heard this\ntradition from a lay-sister of the convent.\n\nAs was natural, after hearing it, I waited impatiently for the ceremony\nto commence, eager to be present at a miracle.\n\nNothing could be less miraculous, however, than the organ of Santa In\u00e9s,\nand nothing more vulgar than the insipid motets with which that night\nthe organist regaled us.\n\nOn going out from the mass, I could not resist asking the lay-sister\nmischievously:\n\n\u201cHow does it happen that the organ of Master P\u00e9rez is so unmusical at\npresent?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy!\u201d replied the old woman. \u201cBecause it isn\u2019t his.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot his? What has become of it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt fell to pieces from sheer old age, a number of years ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the soul of the organist?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has not appeared again since the new organ was set up in place of\nhis own.\u201d\n\nIf anyone of my readers, after perusing this history, should be moved to\nask the same question, now he knows why the notable miracle has not\ncontinued into our own time.\n\n\nI.\n\n\u201cDo you see that man with the scarlet cloak and the white plume in his\nhat,--the one who seems to wear on his waistcoat all the gold of the\ngalleons of the Indies,--that man, I mean, just stepping down from his\nlitter to give his hand to the lady there, who, now that she is out of\nhers, is coming our way, preceded by four pages with torches? Well, that\nis the Marquis of Moscoso, suitor to the widowed Countess of\nVillapineda. They say that before setting his eyes upon this lady, he\nhad asked in marriage the daughter of a man of large fortune, but the\ngirl\u2019s father, of whom the rumor goes that he is a bit of a miser,--but\nhush! Speaking of the devil--do you see that man coming on foot under\nthe arch of San Felipe, all muffled up in a dark cloak and attended by a\nsingle servant carrying a lantern? Now he is in front of the outer\nshrine.\n\n\u201cDo you notice, as his cloak falls back while he salutes the image, the\nembroidered cross that sparkles on his breast?\n\n\u201cIf it were not for this noble decoration, one would take him for a\nshop-keeper from Culebras street. Well, that is the father in question.\nSee how the people make way for him and lift their hats.\n\n\u201cEverybody in Seville knows him on account of his immense fortune. That\none man has more golden ducats in his chests than our lord King Philip\nmaintains soldiers, and with his merchantmen he could form a squadron\nequal to that of the Grand Turk----\n\n\u201cLook, look at that group of stately cavaliers! Those are the four and\ntwenty knights. Aha, aha! There goes that precious Fleming, too, whom,\nthey say, the gentlemen of the green cross have not challenged for\nheresy yet, thanks to his influence with the magnates of Madrid. All he\ncomes to church for is to hear the music. But if Master P\u00e9rez does not\ndraw from him with his organ tears as big as fists, then sure it is that\nhis soul isn\u2019t under his doublet, but sizzles in the Devil\u2019s frying-pan.\nAlack, neighbor! Trouble, trouble! I fear there is going to be a fight.\nI shall take refuge in the church; for, from what I see, there will be\nhereabouts more blows than _Pater Nosters_. Look, look! The Duke of\nAlcal\u00e1\u2019s people are coming round the corner of San Pedro\u2019s square, and I\nthink I spy the Duke of Medinasidonia\u2019s men in Due\u00f1as alley. Didn\u2019t I\ntell you?\n\n\u201cNow they have caught sight of each other, now the two parties stop\nshort, without breaking their order, the groups of bystanders dissolve,\nthe police, who on these occasions get pounded by both sides, slip away,\neven the prefect, staff of office and all, seeks the shelter of the\nportico,--and yet they say that there is law to be had.\n\n\u201cFor the poor----\n\n\u201cThere, there! already shields are shining through the dark. Our Lord\nJesus of All Power deliver us! Now the blows are beginning. Neighbor,\nneighbor! this way--before they close the doors. But hush! What is this?\nHardly have they begun when they leave off. What light is that? Blazing\ntorches! A litter! It\u2019s His Reverence the Bishop.\n\n\u201cThe most holy Virgin of Protection, on whom this very instant I was\ncalling in my heart, brings him to my aid. Ah! But nobody knows what I\nowe to that Blessed Lady,--how richly she pays me back for the little\ncandles that I burn to her every Saturday.--See him! How beautiful he is\nwith his purple vestments and his red cardinal\u2019s cap! God preserve him\nin his sacred chair as many centuries as I wish to live myself! If it\nwere not for him, half Seville would have been burned up by this time\nwith these quarrels of the dukes. See them, see them, the great\nhypocrites, how they both press close to the litter of the prelate to\nkiss his ring! How they drop behind and, mingling with his household\nattendants, follow in his train! Who would dream that those two who\nappear on such good terms, if within the half hour they should meet in a\ndark street--that is, the dukes themselves--God deliver me from thinking\nthem cowards; good proof have they given of valor, warring more than\nonce against the enemies of Our Lord; but the truth remains, that if\nthey should seek each other--and seek with the wish to find--they would\nfind each other, putting end once for all to these continuous scuffles,\nin which those who really do the fighting are their kinsmen, their\nfriends and their servants.\n\n\u201cBut come, neighbor, come into the church, before it is packed full.\nSome nights like this it is so crowded that there is not room left for a\ngrain of wheat. The nuns have a prize in their organist. When has the\nconvent ever been in such high favor as now? I can tell you that the\nother sisterhoods have made Master P\u00e9rez magnificent offers, but there\nis nothing strange about that, for the Lord Archbishop himself has\noffered him mountains of gold to entice him to the cathedral,--but he,\nnot a bit of it! He would sooner give up his life than his beloved\norgan. You don\u2019t know Master P\u00e9rez? True enough, you are a newcomer in\nthis neighborhood. Well, he is a saint; poor, but the most charitable\nman alive. With no other relative than his daughter and no other friend\nthan his organ, he devotes all his life to watching over the innocence\nof the one and patching up the registers of the other. Mind that the\norgan is old. But that counts for nothing, he is so handy in mending it\nand caring for it that its sound is a marvel. For he knows it so\nperfectly that only by touch,--for I am not sure that I have told you\nthe poor gentleman is blind from his birth. And how patiently he bears\nhis misfortune! When people ask him how much\n\n[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL, SEVILLE]\n\nhe would give to see, he replies: \u2018Much, but not as much as you think,\nfor I have hopes.\u2019 \u2018Hopes of seeing?\u2019 \u2018Yes, and very soon,\u2019 he adds,\nsmiling like an angel. \u2018Already I number seventy-six years; however long\nmy life may be, soon I shall see God.\u2019\n\n\u201cPoor dear! And he will see Him, for he is humble as the stones of the\nstreet, which let all the world trample on them. He always says that he\nis only a poor convent organist, when the fact is he could give lessons\nin harmony to the very chapel master of the Cathedral, for he was, as it\nwere, born to the art. His father held the same position before him; I\ndid not know the father, but my mother--God rest her soul!--says that he\nalways had the boy at the organ with him to blow the bellows. Then the\nlad developed such talent that, as was natural, he succeeded to the\nposition on the death of his father. And what a touch is in his hands,\nGod bless them! They deserve to be taken to Chicarreros street and there\nenchased in gold. He always plays well, always, but on a night like this\nhe is a wonder. He has the greatest devotion for this ceremony of the\nMidnight Mass, and when the Host is elevated, precisely at twelve\no\u2019clock, which is the moment Our Lord Jesus Christ came into the world,\nthe tones of his organ are the voices of angels.\n\n\u201cBut, after all, why should I praise to you what you will hear to-night?\nIt is enough to see that all the most distinguished people of Seville,\neven the Lord Archbishop himself, come to a humble convent to listen to\nhim; and don\u2019t suppose that it is only the learned people and those who\nare versed in music that appreciate his genius, but the very rabble of\nthe streets. All these groups that you see arriving with pine-torches\nablaze, chorusing popular songs, broken by rude outcries, to the\naccompaniment of timbrels, tambourines and rustic drums, these, contrary\nto their custom, which is to make disturbance in the churches, are still\nas the dead when Master P\u00e9rez lays his hands upon the organ, and when\nthe Host is elevated, you can\u2019t hear a fly; great tears roll down from\nthe eyes of all, and at the end is heard a sound like an immense sigh,\nwhich is nothing else than the expulsion of the breath of the multitude,\nheld in while the music lasts. But come, come! The bells have stopped\nringing, and the mass is going to begin. Come inside.\n\n\u201cThis night is Christmas Eve for all the world, but for nobody more than\nfor us.\u201d\n\nSo saying, the good woman who had been acting as _cicerone_ for her\nneighbor pressed through the portico of the Convent of Santa In\u00e9s, and\nby dint of elbowing and pushing succeeded in getting inside the church,\ndisappearing amid the multitude which thronged the inner spaces near the\ndoors.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe church was illuminated with astonishing brilliancy. The flood of\nlight which spread from the altars through all its compass sparkled on\nthe rich jewels of the ladies who, kneeling on the velvet cushions\nplaced before them by their pages and taking their prayer-books from the\nhands of their duennas, formed a brilliant circle around the\nchoir-screen. Grouped just behind them, on foot, wrapped in bright-lined\ncloaks garnished with gold-lace, with studied carelessness letting\nglimpses of their red and green crosses be seen, in one hand the hat,\nwhose plumes kissed the carpet, the other hand resting upon the polished\nhilt of a rapier or caressing the handle of an ornate dagger, the four\nand twenty knights, with a large proportion of the highest nobility of\nSeville, seemed to form a wall for the purpose of protecting their\ndaughters and their wives from contact with the populace. This, swaying\nback and forth at the rear of the nave, with a murmur like that of a\nsurging sea, broke out into a joyous acclaim, accompanied by the\ndiscordant sounds of the timbrels and tambourines, at the appearance of\nthe archbishop, who, after seating himself, surrounded by his\nattendants, near the High Altar under a scarlet canopy, thrice blessed\nthe assembled people.\n\nIt was time for the mass to begin.\n\nThere passed, nevertheless, several minutes without the appearance of\nthe celebrant. The throng commenced to stir about impatiently; the\nknights exchanged low-toned words with one another, and the archbishop\nsent one of his attendants to the sacristy to inquire the cause of the\ndelay.\n\n\u201cMaster P\u00e9rez has been taken ill, very ill, and it will be impossible\nfor him to come to the Midnight Mass.\u201d\n\nThis was the word brought back by the attendant.\n\nThe news spread instantly through the multitude. It would be impossible\nto depict the dismay which it caused; suffice it to say that such a\nclamor began to arise in the church that the prefect sprang to his feet,\nand the police came in to enforce silence, mingling with the\nclose-pressed, surging crowd.\n\nAt that moment, a man with unpleasant features, thin, bony, and\ncross-eyed, too, hurriedly made his way to the place where the prelate\nwas sitting.\n\n\u201cMaster P\u00e9rez is sick,\u201d he said. \u201cThe ceremony cannot begin. If it is\nyour pleasure, I will play the organ in his absence; for neither is\nMaster P\u00e9rez the first organist of the world, nor at his death need this\ninstrument be left unused for lack of skill.\u201d\n\nThe archbishop gave a nod of assent, and already some of the faithful,\nwho recognized in that strange personage an envious rival of the\norganist of Santa In\u00e9s, were breaking out in exclamations of\ndispleasure, when suddenly a startling uproar was heard in the portico.\n\n\u201cMaster P\u00e9rez is here! Master P\u00e9rez is here!\u201d\n\nAt these cries from the press in the doorway, every one looked around.\n\nMaster P\u00e9rez, his face pallid and drawn, was in fact entering the\nchurch, brought in a chair about which all were contending for the honor\nof carrying it upon their shoulders.\n\nThe commands of the physicians, the tears of his daughter had not been\nable to keep him in bed.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he had said. \u201cThis is the end, I know it, I know it, and I would\nnot die without visiting my organ, and this night above all, Christmas\nEve. Come, I wish it, I command it; let us go to the church.\u201d\n\nHis desire had been fulfilled. The people carried him in their arms to\nthe organ-loft, and the mass began.\n\nAt that instant the cathedral clock struck twelve.\n\nThe introit passed, and the Gospel, and the offertory, and then came the\nsolemn moment in which the priest, after having blessed the Sacred\nWafer, took it in the tips of his fingers and began to elevate it.\n\nA cloud of incense, rolling forth in azure waves, filled the length and\nbreadth of the church; the little bells rang out with silvery\nvibrations, and Master P\u00e9rez placed his quivering hands upon the keys of\nthe organ.\n\nThe hundred voices of its metal tubes resounded in a prolonged, majestic\nchord, which died away little by little, as if a gentle breeze had\nstolen its last echoes.\n\nTo this opening chord, that seemed a voice lifted from earth to heaven,\nresponded a sweet and distant note, which went on swelling and swelling\nin volume until it became a torrent of pealing harmony.\n\nIt was the song of the angels, which, traversing the ethereal spaces,\nhad reached the world.\n\nThen there began to be heard a sound as of far-off hymns entoned by the\nhierarchies of seraphim, a thousand hymns at once, melting into one,\nwhich, nevertheless, was no more than accompaniment to a strange\nmelody,--a melody that seemed to float above that ocean of mysterious\nechoes as a strip of fog above the billows of the sea.\n\nOne anthem after another died away; the movement grew simpler; now there\nwere but two voices, whose echoes blended; then one alone remained,\nsustaining a note as brilliant as a thread of light. The priest bowed\nhis face, and above his gray head, across an azure mist made by the\nsmoke of the incense, appeared to the eyes of the faithful the uplifted\nHost. At that instant the thrilling note which Master P\u00e9rez was holding\nbegan to swell and swell until an outburst of colossal harmony shook the\nchurch, in whose corners the straitened air vibrated and whose stained\nglass shivered in its narrow Moorish embrasures.\n\nFrom each of the notes forming that magnificent chord a theme was\ndeveloped,--some near, some far, these keen, those muffled, until one\nwould have said that the waters and the birds, the winds and the woods,\nmen and angels, earth and heaven, were chanting, each in its own tongue,\nan anthem of praise for the Redeemer\u2019s birth.\n\nThe multitude listened in amazement and suspense. In all eyes were\ntears, in all spirits a profound realization of the divine.\n\nThe officiating priest felt his hands trembling, for the Holy One whom\nthey upheld, the Holy One to whom men and archangels did reverence, was\nGod, was very God, and it seemed to the priest that he had beheld the\nheavens open and the Host become transfigured.\n\nThe organ still sounded, but its music was gradually sinking away, like\na tone dropping from echo to echo, ever more remote, ever fainter with\nthe remoteness, when suddenly a cry rang out in the organ-loft, shrill,\npiercing, the cry of a woman.\n\nThe organ gave forth a strange, discordant sound, like a sob, and then\nwas still.\n\nThe multitude surged toward the stair leading up to the organ-loft, in\nwhose direction all the faithful, startled out of their religious\necstasy, were turning anxious looks.\n\n\u201cWhat has happened?\u201d \u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d they asked one of another,\nand none knew what to reply, and all strove to conjecture, and the\nconfusion increased, and the excitement began to rise to a height which\nthreatened to disturb the order and decorum fitting within a church.\n\n\u201cWhat was it?\u201d asked the great ladies of the prefect who, attended by\nhis officers, had been one of the first to mount to the loft, and now,\npale and showing signs of deep grief, was making his way to the\narchbishop, waiting in anxiety, like all the rest, to know the cause of\nthat disturbance.\n\n\u201cWhat has occurred?\u201d\n\n\u201cMaster P\u00e9rez has just died.\u201d\n\nIn fact, when the foremost of the faithful, after pressing up the\nstairway, had reached the organ-loft, they saw the poor organist fallen\nface down upon the keys of his old instrument, which was still faintly\nmurmuring, while his daughter, kneeling at his feet, was vainly calling\nto him amid sighs and sobs.\n\n\nIII.\n\n\u201cGood evening, my dear Do\u00f1a Baltasara. Are you, too, going to-night to\nthe Christmas Eve Mass? For my part, I was intending to go to the parish\nchurch to hear it, but after what has happened--\u2018where goes John? With\nall the town.\u2019 And the truth, if I must tell it, is that since Master\nP\u00e9rez died, a marble slab seems to fall on my heart whenever I enter\nSanta In\u00e9s.--Poor dear man! He was a saint. I assure you that I keep a\npiece of his doublet as a relic, and he deserves it, for by God and my\nsoul it is certain that if our Lord Archbishop would stir in the matter,\nour grandchildren would see the image of Master P\u00e9rez upon an altar.\nBut what hope of it? \u2018The dead and the gone are let alone.\u2019 We\u2019re all\nfor the latest thing now-a-days; you understand me. No? You haven\u2019t an\ninkling of what has happened? It\u2019s true we are alike in this,--from\nhouse to church, and from church to house, without concerning ourselves\nabout what is said or isn\u2019t said--except that I, as it were, on the\nwing, a word here, another there, without the least curiosity whatever,\nusually run across any news that may be going. Well, then! It seems to\nbe settled that the organist of San Rom\u00e1n, that squint-eye, who is\nalways throwing out slurs against the other organists, that great\nsloven, who looks more like a butcher from the slaughter-house than a\nprofessor of music, is going to play this Christmas Eve in place of\nMaster P\u00e9rez. Now you must know, for all the world knows and it is a\npublic matter in Seville, that nobody was willing to attempt it. Not\neven his daughter, though she is herself an expert, and after her\nfather\u2019s death entered the convent as a novice. And naturally enough;\naccustomed to hear those marvellous performances, any other playing\nwhatever must seem poor to us, however much we would like to avoid\ncomparisons. But no sooner had the sisterhood decided that, in honor of\nthe dead and as a token of respect to his memory, the organ should be\nsilent to-night, than--look you!--here comes along our modest friend,\nsaying that he is ready to play it. Nothing is bolder than ignorance. It\nis true the fault is not so much his as theirs who have consented to\nthis profanation, but so goes the world. I say, it\u2019s no trifle--this\ncrowd that is coming. One would think nothing had changed since last\nyear. The same great people, the same magnificence, the same pushing in\nthe doorway, the same excitement in the portico, the same throng in the\nchurch. Ah, if the dead should rise, he would die again rather than hear\nhis organ played by hands like those. The fact is, if what the people of\nthe neighborhood have told me is true, they are preparing a fine\nreception for the intruder. When the moment comes for placing the hand\nupon the keys, there is going to break out such a racket of timbrels,\ntambourines and rustic drums that nothing else can be heard. But hush!\nthere\u2019s the hero of the occasion just going into the church. Jesus! what\na showy jacket, what a fluted ruff, what a high and mighty air! Come,\ncome, the archbishop arrived a minute ago, and the mass is going to\nbegin. Come; it looks as though this night would give us something to\ntalk about for many a day.\u201d\n\nWith these words the worthy woman, whom our readers recognize by her\ndisconnected loquacity, entered Santa In\u00e9s, opening a way through the\npress, as usual, by dint of shoving and elbowing.\n\nAlready the ceremony had begun.\n\nThe church was as brilliant as the year before.\n\nThe new organist, after passing through the midst of the faithful who\nthronged the nave, on his way to kiss the ring of the prelate, had\nmounted to the organ-loft, where he was trying one stop of the organ\nafter another with a solicitous gravity as affected as it was\nridiculous.\n\nAmong the common people clustered at the rear of the church was heard a\nmurmur, muffled and confused, sure augury of the coming storm which\nwould not be long in breaking.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s a clown, who doesn\u2019t know how to do anything, not even to look\nstraight,\u201d said some.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s an ignoramus, who after having made the organ in his own parish\nchurch worse than a rattle comes here to profane Master P\u00e9rez\u2019s,\u201d said\nothers.\n\nAnd while one was throwing off his coat so as to beat his drum to better\nadvantage, and another was trying his timbrels, and the clatter was\nincreasing more and more, only here and there could one be found to\ndefend in lukewarm fashion that alien personage, whose pompous and\npedantic bearing formed so strong a contrast to the modest manner and\nkindly courtesy of the dead Master P\u00e9rez.\n\nAt last the looked-for moment came, the solemn moment when the priest,\nafter bowing low and murmuring the sacred words, took the Host in his\nhands. The little bells rang out, their chime like a rain of crystal\nnotes; the translucent waves of incense rose, and the organ sounded.\n\nAt that instant a horrible din filled the compass of the church,\ndrowning the first chord.\n\nBagpipes, horns, timbrels, drums, all the instruments of the populace\nraised their discordant voices at once, but the confusion and the clang\nlasted but a few seconds. All at once as the tumult had begun, so all at\nonce it ceased.\n\nThe second chord, full, bold, magnificent, sustained itself, still\npouring from the organ\u2019s metal tubes like a cascade of inexhaustible,\nsonorous harmony.\n\nCelestial songs like those that caress the ear in moments of ecstasy,\nsongs which the spirit perceives but the lip cannot repeat; fugitive\nnotes of a far-off melody, which reach us at intervals, sounding in the\nbugles of the wind; the rustle of leaves kissing one another on the\ntrees with a murmur like rain; trills of larks which rise warbling from\namong the flowers like a flight of arrows to the clouds; nameless\ncrashes, overwhelming as the thunders of a tempest; a chorus of seraphim\nwithout rhythm or cadence, unknown harmony of heaven which only the\nimagination understands; soaring hymns, that seem to mount to the throne\nof God like a fountain of light and sound--all this was expressed by the\norgan\u2019s hundred voices, with more vigor, more mystic poetry, more weird\ncoloring than had ever been known before.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhen the organist came down from the loft, the crowd which pressed up\nto the stairway was so great, and their eagerness to see and praise him\nso intense, that the prefect, fearing, and not without reason, that he\nwould be suffocated among them all, commanded some of the police to\nopen, by their staves, a path for him that he might reach the High Altar\nwhere the prelate waited his arrival.\n\n\u201cYou perceive,\u201d said the archbishop, when the musician was brought into\nhis presence, \u201cthat I have come all the way from my palace hither only\nto hear you. Will you be as cruel as Master P\u00e9rez, who would never save\nme the journey by playing the Midnight Mass in the cathedral?\u201d\n\n\u201cNext year,\u201d responded the organist, \u201cI promise to give you that\npleasure, for not all the gold of the earth would induce me to play this\norgan again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why not?\u201d interrupted the prelate.\n\n\u201cBecause,\u201d replied the organist, striving to repress the agitation\nrevealed in the pallor of his face,--\u201cbecause it is old and poor, and\none cannot express on it all that one would.\u201d\n\nThe archbishop retired, followed by his attendants. One by one, the\nlitters of the great folk went filing away, lost to sight in the\nwindings of the neighboring streets; the groups of the portico melted,\nas the faithful dispersed in different directions; and already the\nlay-sister who acted as gate-keeper was about to lock the vestibule\ndoors, when there appeared two women, who, after crossing themselves and\nmuttering a prayer before the arched shrine of Saint Philip, went their\nway, turning into Due\u00f1as alley.\n\n\u201cWhat would you have, my dear Do\u00f1a Baltasara?\u201d one of them was saying.\n\u201cThat\u2019s the way I\u2019m made. Every fool has his fancy. The barefooted\nCapuchins might assure me that it was so and I wouldn\u2019t believe it in\nthe least. That man cannot have played what we have just been hearing. A\nthousand times have I heard him in San Bartolom\u00e9, his parish church,\nfrom which the priest had to send him away for his bad playing,--enough\nto make you stop your ears with cotton. Besides, all you need is to look\nat his face, which, they say, is the mirror of the soul. I remember,\npoor dear man, as if I were seeing him now,--I remember Master P\u00e9rez\u2019s\nlook when, on a night like this, he would come down from the organ loft,\nafter having entranced the audience with his marvels. What a gracious\nsmile, what a happy glow on his face! Old as he was, he seemed like an\nangel. But this fellow came plunging down the stairs as if a dog were\nbarking at him on the landing, his face the color of the dead, and--come\nnow, my dear Do\u00f1a Baltasara, believe me, believe me with all your soul.\nI suspect a mystery in this.\u201d\n\nWith these last words, the two women turned the corner of the street and\ndisappeared.\n\nWe count it needless to inform our readers who one of them was.\n\n\nIV.\n\nAnother year had gone by. The abbess of the convent of Santa In\u00e9s and\nthe daughter of Master P\u00e9rez, half hidden in the shadows of the church\nchoir, were talking in low tones. The peremptory voice of the bell was\ncalling from its tower to the faithful, and occasionally an individual\nwould cross the portico, silent and deserted now, and after taking the\nholy water at the door, would choose a place in a corner of the nave,\nwhere a few residents of the neighborhood were quietly waiting for the\nMidnight Mass to begin.\n\n\u201cThere, you see,\u201d the mother superior was saying, \u201cyour fear is\nexcessively childish. There is nobody in the church. All Seville is\ntrooping to the cathedral to-night. Play the organ and play it without\nthe least uneasiness. We are only the sisterhood here. Well? Still you\nare silent, still your breaths are like sighs. What is it? What is the\nmatter?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am--afraid,\u201d exclaimed the girl, in a tone of the deepest agitation.\n\n\u201cAfraid? Of what?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know--of something supernatural. Last night, see, I had heard\nyou say that you earnestly wished me to play the organ for the mass and,\npleased with this honor, I thought I would look to the stops and tune\nit, so as to give you a surprise to-day. I went into the choir--alone--I\nopened the door which leads to the organ-loft. At that moment the clock\nof the cathedral struck the hour--what hour, I do not know. The peals\nwere exceedingly mournful, and many--many. They kept on sounding all the\ntime that I stood as if nailed to the threshold, and that time seemed to\nme a century.\n\n\u201cThe church was empty and dark. Far away, in the hollow depth, there\ngleamed, like a single star lost in the sky of night, a feeble light,\nthe light of the lamp which burns on the High Altar. By its faint rays,\nwhich only served to make more visible all the deep horror of the\ndarkness, I saw--I saw--mother, do not disbelieve it--I saw a man who,\nin silence and with his back turned toward the place where I stood, was\nrunning over the organ-keys with one hand, while he tried the stops with\nthe other. And the organ sounded, but it sounded in a manner\nindescribable. It seemed as if each of its notes were a sob smothered\nwithin the metal tube which vibrated with its burden of compressed air,\nand gave forth a muffled tone, almost inaudible, yet exact and true.\n\n\u201cAnd the cathedral clock kept on striking, and that man kept on running\nover the keys. I heard his very breathing.\n\n\u201cThe horror of it had frozen the blood in my veins. In my body I felt an\nicy chill and in my temples fire. Then I longed to cry out, but could\nnot. That man had turned his face and looked at me,--no, not looked at\nme, for he was blind. It was my father.\u201d\n\n\u201cBah, sister! Put away these fancies with which the wicked enemy tries\nto trouble weak imaginations. Pray a _Pater Noster_ and an _Ave Maria_\nto the archangel Saint Michael, captain of the celestial hosts, that he\nmay aid you to resist the evil spirits. Wear on your neck a scapulary\nwhich has been touched to the relics of Saint Pacomio, our advocate\nagainst temptations, and go, go in power to the organ-loft. The mass is\nabout to begin, and the faithful are growing impatient. Your father is\nin heaven, and thence, instead of giving you a fright, he will descend\nto inspire his daughter in this solemn service which he so especially\nloved.\u201d\n\nThe prioress went to occupy her seat in the choir in the centre of the\nsisterhood. The daughter of Master P\u00e9rez opened the door of the loft\nwith trembling hand, sat down at the organ, and the mass began.\n\nThe mass began, and continued without any unusual occurrence until the\nconsecration. Then the organ sounded, and at the same time came a scream\nfrom the daughter of Master P\u00e9rez.\n\nThe mother superior, the nuns, and some of the faithful rushed up to the\norgan-loft.\n\n\u201cLook at him! look at him!\u201d cried the girl, fixing her eyes, starting\nfrom their sockets, upon the organ-bench, from which she had risen in\nterror, clinging with convulsed hands to the railing of the organ-loft.\n\nAll eyes were fixed upon the spot to which her gaze was turned. No one\nwas at the organ, yet it went on sounding--sounding as the archangels\nsing in their raptures of mystic ecstasy.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I tell you so a thousand times, my dear Do\u00f1a Baltasara--didn\u2019t I\ntell you so? There is a mystery here. What? You were not at the\nChristmas Eve Mass last night? But, for all that, you must know what\nhappened. Nothing else is talked about in all Seville. The archbishop is\nfurious, and with good reason. To have missed going to Santa In\u00e9s--to\nhave missed being present at the miracle! And for what? To hear a\ncharivari, a rattle-go-bang, for people who heard it tell me that what\nthe inspired organist of San Bartolom\u00e9 did in the cathedral was just\nthat. I told you so. The squint-eye could never have played that divine\nmusic of last year, never. There is mystery about all this, a mystery\nthat is, in truth, the soul of Master P\u00e9rez.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE EMERALD EYES\n\n\nFor a long time I have desired to write something with this title. Now\nthat the opportunity has come, I have inscribed it in capital letters at\nthe top of the page and have let my pen run at will.\n\nI believe that I have seen eyes like those I have painted in this\nlegend. It may have been in my dreams, but I have seen them. Too true it\nis that I shall not be able to describe them as they were, luminous,\ntransparent as drops of rain slipping over the leaves of the trees after\na summer shower. At all events, I count upon the imagination of my\nreaders to understand me in what we might call a sketch for a picture\nwhich I will paint some day.\n\n\nI.\n\n\u201cThe stag is wounded--he is wounded; no doubt of it. There are traces of\nhis blood on the mountain shrubs, and in trying to leap one of those\nmastic trees his legs failed him. Our young lord begins where others\nend. In my forty years as huntsman I have not seen a better shot. But by\nSaint Saturio, patron of Soria, cut him off at these hollies, urge on\nthe dogs, blow the horns till your lungs are empty, and bury your spurs\nin the flanks of the horses. Do you not see that he is going toward the\nfountain of the Poplars, and if he lives to reach it we must give him up\nfor lost?\u201d\n\nThe glens of the Moncayo flung from echo to echo the braying of the\nhorns and barking of the unleashed pack of hounds; the shouts of the\npages resounded with new vigor, while the confused throng of men, dogs\nand horses rushed toward the point which I\u00f1igo, the head huntsman of\nthe Marquises of Almenar, indicated as the one most favorable for\nintercepting the quarry.\n\nBut all was of no avail. When the fleetest of the greyhounds reached the\nhollies, panting, its jaws covered with foam, already the deer, swift as\nan arrow, had cleared them at a single bound, disappearing among the\nthickets of a narrow path which led to the fountain.\n\n\u201cDraw rein! draw rein, every man!\u201d then cried I\u00f1igo. \u201cIt was the will of\nGod that he should escape.\u201d\n\nAnd the troop halted, the horns fell silent and the hounds, at the call\nof the hunters, abandoned, snarling, the trail.\n\nAt that moment, the lord of the festival, Fernando de Argensola, the\nheir of Almenar, came up with the company.\n\n\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d he exclaimed, addressing his huntsman,\nastonishment depicted on his features, anger burning in his eyes. \u201cWhat\nare you doing, idiot? Do you see that the creature is wounded, that it\nis the first to fall by my hand, and yet you abandon the pursuit and let\nit give you the slip to die in the depths of the forest? Do you think\nperchance that I have come to kill deer for the banquets of wolves?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Se\u00f1or_,\u201d murmured I\u00f1igo between his teeth, \u201cit is impossible to pass\nthis point.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpossible! And why?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause this path,\u201d continued the huntsman, \u201cleads to the fountain of\nthe Poplars, the fountain of the Poplars in whose waters dwells an evil\nspirit. He who dares trouble its flow pays dear for his rashness.\nAlready the deer will have reached its borders; how will you take it\nwithout drawing on your head some fearful calamity? We hunters are kings\nof the Moncayo, but kings that pay a tribute. A quarry which takes\nrefuge at this mysterious fountain is a quarry lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cLost! Sooner will I lose the seigniory of my fathers, sooner will I\nlose my soul into the hands of Satan than permit this stag to escape me,\nthe only one my spear has wounded, the first fruits of my hunting. Do\nyou see him? Do you see him? He can still at intervals be made out from\nhere. His legs falter, his speed slackens; let me go, let me go! Drop\nthis bridle or I roll you in the dust! Who knows if I will not run him\ndown before he reaches the fountain? And if he should reach it, to the\ndevil with it, its untroubled waters and its inhabitants! On, Lightning!\non, my steed! If you overtake him, I will have the diamonds of my\ncoronet set in a headstall all of gold for you.\u201d\n\nHorse and rider departed like a hurricane.\n\nI\u00f1igo followed them with his eyes till they disappeared in the brush.\nThen he looked about him: all like himself remained motionless, in\nconsternation.\n\nThe huntsman exclaimed at last:\n\n\u201c_Se\u00f1ores_, you are my witnesses. I exposed myself to death under his\nhorse\u2019s hoofs to hold him back. I have fulfilled my duty. Against the\ndevil heroism does not avail. To this point comes the huntsman with his\ncrossbow; beyond this, it is for the chaplain with his holy water to\nattempt to pass.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\n\u201cYou are pale; you go about sad and gloomy. What afflicts you? From the\nday, which I shall ever hold in hate, on which you went to the fountain\nof the Poplars in chase of the wounded deer, I should say an evil\nsorceress had bewitched you with her enchantments.\n\n\u201cYou do not go to the mountains now preceded by the clamorous pack of\nhounds, nor does the blare of your horns awake the echoes. Alone with\nthese brooding fancies which beset you, every morning you take your\ncrossbow only to plunge into the thickets and remain there until the\nsun goes down. And when night darkens and you return to the castle,\nwhite and weary, in vain I seek in the game-bag the spoils of the chase.\nWhat detains you so long far from those who love you most?\u201d\n\nWhile I\u00f1igo was speaking, Fernando, absorbed in his thoughts,\nmechanically cut splinters from the ebony bench with his hunting knife.\n\nAfter a long silence, which was interrupted only by the click of the\nblade as it slipped over the polished wood, the young man, addressing\nhis servant as if he had not heard a single word, exclaimed:\n\n\u201cI\u00f1igo, you who are an old man, you who know all the haunts of the\nMoncayo, who have lived on its slopes pursuing wild beasts and in your\nwandering hunting trips have more than once stood on its summit, tell\nme, have you ever by chance met a woman who dwells among its rocks?\u201d\n\n\u201cA woman!\u201d exclaimed the huntsman with astonishment, looking closely at\nhim.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the youth. \u201cIt is a strange thing that has happened to me,\nvery strange. I thought I could keep this secret always; but it is no\nlonger possible. It overflows my heart and begins to reveal itself in my\nface. Therefore I am going to tell it to you. You will help me solve the\nmystery which enfolds this being who seems to exist only for me, since\nno one knows her or has seen her, or can give me any account of her.\u201d\n\nThe huntsman, without opening his lips, drew forward his stool to place\nit near the ebony bench of his lord from whom he did not once remove his\naffrighted eyes. The youth, after arranging his thoughts, continued\nthus:\n\n\u201cFrom the day on which, notwithstanding your gloomy predictions, I went\nto the fountain of the Poplars, and crossing its waters recovered the\nstag which your superstition would have let escape, my soul has been\nfilled with a desire for solitude.\n\n\u201cYou do not know that place. See, the fountain springs from a hidden\nsource in the cavity of a rock, and falls in trickling drops through the\ngreen, floating leaves of the plants that grow on the border of its\ncradle. These drops, which on falling glisten like points of gold and\nsound like the notes of a musical instrument, unite on the turf and\nmurmuring, murmuring with a sound like that of bees humming about the\nflowers, glide on through the gravel, and form a rill and contend with\nthe obstacles in their way, and gather volume and leap and flee and run,\nsometimes with a laugh, sometimes with sighs, until they fall into a\nlake. Into the lake they fall with an indescribable sound. Laments,\nwords, names, songs, I know not what I have heard in that sound when I\nhave sat, alone and fevered, upon the huge rock at whose feet the waters\nof that mysterious fountain leap to bury themselves in a deep pool whose\nstill surface is scarcely rippled by the evening wind.\n\n\u201cEverything there is grand. Solitude with its thousand vague murmurs\ndwells in those places and transports the mind with a profound\nmelancholy. In the silvered leaves of the poplars, in the hollows of the\nrocks, in the waves of the water it seems that the invisible spirits of\nnature talk with us, that they recognize a brother in the immortal soul\nof man.\n\n\u201cWhen at break of dawn you would see me take my crossbow and go toward\nthe mountain, it was never to lose myself among the thickets in pursuit\nof game. No, I went to sit on the rim of the fountain, to seek in its\nwaves--I know not what--an absurdity! The day I leaped over it on my\nLightning, I believed I saw glittering in its depths a marvel--truly a\nmarvel--the eyes of a woman!\n\n\u201cPerhaps it may have been a fugitive ray of sunshine that wound,\nserpent like, through the foam; perhaps one of those flowers which float\namong the weeds of its bosom, flowers whose calyxes seem to be\nemeralds--I do not know. I thought I saw a gaze which fixed itself on\nmine, a look which kindled in my breast a desire absurd, impossible of\nrealization, that of meeting a person with eyes like those.\n\n\u201cIn my search, I went to that place day after day.\n\n\u201cAt last, one afternoon--I thought myself the plaything of a dream--but\nno, it is the truth; I have spoken with her many times as I am now\nspeaking with you--one afternoon I found, sitting where I had sat,\nclothed in a robe which reached to the waters and floated on their\nsurface, a woman beautiful beyond all exaggeration. Her hair was like\ngold; her eyelashes shone like threads of light, and between the lashes\nflashed the restless eyes that I had seen--yes; for the eyes of that\nwoman were the eyes which I bore stamped upon my mind, eyes of an\nimpossible color, the color----\u201d\n\n\u201cGreen!\u201d exclaimed I\u00f1igo, in accents of profound terror, starting with a\nbound from his seat.\n\nFernando, in turn, looked at him as if astonished that I\u00f1igo should\nsupply what he was about to say, and asked him with mingled anxiety and\njoy:\n\n\u201cDo you know her?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no!\u201d said the huntsman. \u201cGod save me from knowing her! But my\nparents, on forbidding me to go toward those places, told me a thousand\ntimes that the spirit, goblin, demon or woman, who dwells in those\nwaters, has eyes of that color. I conjure you by that which you love\nmost on earth not to return to the fountain of the Poplars. One day or\nanother her vengeance will overtake you, and you will expiate in death\nthe crime of having stained her waters.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy what I love most!\u201d murmured the young man with a sad smile.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d continued the elder. \u201cBy your parents, by your kindred, by the\ntears of her whom heaven destines for your wife, by those of a servant\nwho watched beside your cradle.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know what I love most in this world? Do you know for what I\nwould give the love of my father, the kisses of her who gave me life,\nand all the affection which all the women on earth can hold in store?\nFor one look, for only one look of those eyes! How can I leave off\nseeking them?\u201d\n\nFernando said these words in such a tone that the tear which trembled on\nthe eyelids of I\u00f1igo fell silently down his cheek, while he exclaimed\nwith a mournful accent: \u201cThe will of Heaven be done!\u201d\n\n\nIII.\n\n\u201cWho art thou? What is thy fatherland? Where dost thou dwell? Day after\nday I come seeking thee, and see neither the palfrey that brings thee\nhither, nor the servants who bear thy litter. Rend once for all the veil\nof mystery in which thou dost enfold thyself as in the heart of night. I\nlove thee and, highborn or lowly, I will be thine, thine forever.\u201d\n\nThe sun had crossed the crest of the mountain. The shadows were\ndescending its slope with giant strides. The breeze sighed amid the\npoplars of the fountain. The mist, rising little by little from the\nsurface of the lake, began to envelop the rocks of its margin.\n\nUpon one of these rocks, on one which seemed ready to topple over into\nthe depths of the waters on whose surface was pictured its wavering\nimage, the heir of Almenar, on his knees at the feet of his mysterious\nbeloved, sought in vain to draw from her the secret of her existence.\n\nShe was beautiful, beautiful and pallid as an alabaster statue. One of\nher tresses fell over her shoulders, entangling itself in the folds of\nher veil like a ray of sunlight passing through clouds; and her eyes,\nwithin the circle of her amber-colored lashes, gleamed like emeralds set\nin fretted gold.\n\nWhen the youth ceased speaking, her lips moved as for utterance, but\nonly exhaled a sigh, a sigh soft and sorrowful like that of the gentle\nwave which a dying breeze drives among the rushes.\n\n\u201cThou answerest not,\u201d exclaimed Fernando, seeing his hope mocked.\n\u201cWouldst thou have me credit what they have told me of thee? Oh, no!\nSpeak to me. I long to know if thou lovest me; I long to know if I may\nlove thee, if thou art a woman----\u201d\n\n--\u201cOr a demon. And if I were?\u201d\n\nThe youth hesitated a moment; a cold sweat ran through his limbs; the\npupils of his eyes dilated, fixing themselves with more intensity upon\nthose of that woman and, fascinated by their phosphoric brilliance, as\nthough demented he exclaimed in a burst of passion:\n\n\u201cIf thou wert, I should love thee. I should love thee as I love thee\nnow, as it is my destiny to love thee even beyond this life, if there be\nany life beyond.\u201d\n\n\u201cFernando,\u201d said the beautiful being then, in a voice like music: \u201cI\nlove thee even more than thou lovest me; in that I, who am pure spirit,\nstoop to a mortal. I am not a woman like those that live on earth. I am\na woman worthy of thee who art superior to the rest of humankind. I\ndwell in the depths of these waters, incorporeal like them, fugitive and\ntransparent; I speak with their murmurs and move with their undulations.\nI do not punish him who dares disturb the fountain where I live; rather\nI reward him with my love, as a mortal superior to the superstitions of\nthe common herd, as a lover capable of responding to my strange and\nmysterious embrace.\u201d\n\nWhile she was speaking, the youth, absorbed in the contemplation of her\nfantastic beauty, drawn on as by an unknown force, approached nearer and\nnearer the edge of the rock. The woman of the emerald eyes continued\nthus:\n\n\u201cDost thou behold, behold the limpid depths of this lake, behold these\nplants with large, green leaves which wave in its bosom? They will give\nus a couch of emeralds and corals and I--I will give thee a bliss\nunnamable, that bliss which thou hast dreamed of in thine hours of\ndelirium, and which no other can bestow.--Come! the mists of the lake\nfloat over our brows like a pavilion of lawn, the waves call us with\ntheir incomprehensible voices, the wind sings among the poplars hymns of\nlove; come--come!\u201d\n\nNight began to cast her shadows, the moon shimmered on the surface of\nthe pool, the mist was driven before the rising breeze, the green eyes\nglittered in the dusk like the will-o\u2019-the-wisps that run over the\nsurface of impure waters. \u201cCome, come!\u201d these words were murmuring in\nthe ears of Fernando like an incantation,--\u201cCome!\u201d and the mysterious\nwoman called him to the brink of the abyss where she was poised, and\nseemed to offer him a kiss--a kiss----\n\nFernando took one step toward her--another--and felt arms slender and\nflexible twining about his neck and a cold sensation on his burning\nlips, a kiss of snow--wavered, lost his footing and fell, striking the\nwater with a dull and mournful sound.\n\nThe waves leaped in sparks of light, and closed over his body, and their\nsilvery circles went widening, widening until they died away on the\nbanks.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN BRACELET\n\n\nI.\n\nShe was beautiful, beautiful with that beauty which turns a man dizzy;\nbeautiful with that beauty which in no wise resembles our dream of the\nangels, and yet is supernatural; a diabolical beauty that the devil\nperchance gives to certain beings to make them his instruments on earth.\n\nHe loved her--he loved her with that love which knows not check nor\nbounds; he loved her with that love which seeks delight and finds but\nmartyrdom; a love which is akin to bliss, yet which Heaven seems to cast\non mortals for the expiation of their sins.\n\nShe was wayward, wayward and unreasonable, like all the women of the\nworld.\n\nHe, superstitious, superstitious and valiant, like all the men of his\ntime.\n\nHer name was Maria Ant\u00fanez.\n\nHis, Pedro Alfonso de Orellana.\n\nBoth were natives of Toledo, and both had their homes in the city which\nsaw their birth.\n\nThe tradition which relates this marvellous event, an event of many\nyears since, tells nothing more of these two central actors.\n\nI, in my character of scrupulous historian, will not add a single word\nof my own invention to describe them further.\n\n\nII.\n\nOne day he found her in tears and asked her:\n\n\u201cWhy dost thou weep?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: A CITY SQUARE, TOLEDO]\n\nShe dried her eyes, looked at him searchingly, heaved a sigh and began\nto weep anew.\n\nThen, drawing close to Maria, he took her hand, leaned his elbow on the\nfretted edge of the Arabic parapet whence the beautiful maiden was\nwatching the river flow beneath, and again he asked her: \u201cWhy dost thou\nweep?\u201d\n\nThe Tajo, moaning at the tower\u2019s foot, twisted in and out amid the rocks\non which is seated the imperial city. The sun was sinking behind the\nneighboring mountains, the afternoon haze was floating, a veil of azure\ngauze, and only the monotonous sound of the water broke the profound\nstillness.\n\nMaria exclaimed: \u201cAsk me not why I weep, ask me not; for I would not\nknow how to answer thee, nor thou how to understand. In the souls of us\nwomen are stifling desires which reveal themselves only in a sigh, mad\nideas that cross the imagination without our daring to form them into\nspeech, strange phenomena of our mysterious nature which man cannot even\nconceive. I implore thee, ask me not the cause of my grief; if I should\nreveal it to thee, perchance thou wouldst reply with peals of laughter.\u201d\n\nWhen these words were faltered out, again she bowed the head and again\nhe urged his questions.\n\nThe radiant damsel, breaking at last her stubborn silence, said to her\nlover in a hoarse, unsteady voice:\n\n\u201cThou wilt have it. It is a folly that will make thee laugh, but be it\nso. I will tell thee, since thou dost crave to hear.\n\n\u201cYesterday I was in the temple. They were celebrating the feast of the\nVirgin; her image, placed on a golden pedestal above the High Altar,\nglowed like a burning coal; the notes of the organ trembled, spreading\nfrom echo to echo throughout the length and breadth of the church, and\nin the choir the priests were chanting the _Salve, Regina_.\n\n\u201cI was praying; I was praying, all absorbed in my religious meditations,\nwhen involuntarily I lifted my head, and my gaze sought the altar. I\nknow not why my eyes from that instant fixed themselves upon the image,\nbut I speak amiss--it was not on the image; they fixed themselves upon\nan object which until then I had not seen--an object which, I know not\nwhy, thenceforth held all my attention. Do not laugh; that object was\nthe golden bracelet that the Mother of God wears on one of the arms in\nwhich rests her divine Son. I turned aside my gaze and strove again to\npray. Impossible. Without my will, my eyes moved back to the same point.\nThe altar lights, reflected in the thousand facets of those diamonds,\nwere multiplied prodigiously. Millions of living sparks, rosy, azure,\ngreen and golden, were whirling around the jewels like a storm of fiery\natoms, like a dizzy round of those spirits of flame which fascinate with\ntheir brightness and their marvellous unrest.\n\n\u201cI left the church. I came home, but I came with that idea fixed in\nimagination. I went to bed; I could not sleep. The night passed, a night\neternal with one thought. At dawn my eyelids closed and--believest\nthou?--even in slumber I saw crossing before me, dimming in the distance\nand ever returning, a woman, a woman dark and beautiful, who wore the\nornament of gold and jewel work; a woman, yes, for it was no longer the\nVirgin, whom I adore and at whose feet I bow; it was a woman, another\nwoman like myself, who looked upon me and laughed mockingly. \u2018Dost see\nit?\u2019 she appeared to say, showing me the treasure. \u2018How it glitters! It\nseems a circlet of stars snatched from the sky some summer night. Dost\nsee it? But it is not thine, and it will be thine never, never. Thou\nwilt perchance have others that surpass it, others richer, if it be\npossible, but this, this which sparkles so piquantly, so bewitchingly,\nnever, never.\u2019 I awoke, but with the same idea fixed here, then as now,\nlike a red-hot nail, diabolical, irresistible, inspired beyond a doubt\nby Satan himself.--And what then?--Thou art silent, silent, and dost\nhang thy head.--Does not my folly make thee laugh?\u201d\n\nPedro, with a convulsive movement, grasped the hilt of his sword, raised\nhis head, which he had, indeed, bent low and said with smothered voice:\n\n\u201cWhich Virgin has this jewel?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Virgin of the Sagrario,\u201d murmured Maria.\n\n\u201cThe Virgin of the Sagrario!\u201d repeated the youth, with accent of terror.\n\u201cThe Virgin of the Sagrario of the cathedral!\u201d\n\nAnd in his features was portrayed for an instant the state of his mind,\nappalled before a thought.\n\n\u201cAh, why does not some other Virgin own it?\u201d he continued, with a tense,\nimpassioned tone. \u201cWhy does not the archbishop bear it in his mitre, the\nking in his crown, or the devil between his claws? I would tear it away\nfor thee, though its price were death or hell. But from the Virgin of\nthe Sagrario, our own Holy Patroness,--I--I who was born in Toledo!\nImpossible, impossible!\u201d\n\n\u201cNever!\u201d murmured Maria, in a voice that scarcely reached the ear.\n\u201cNever!\u201d\n\nAnd she wept again.\n\nPedro fixed a stupefied stare on the running waves of the river--on the\nrunning waves, which flowed and flowed unceasingly before his\nabsent-thoughted eyes, breaking at the foot of the tower amid the rocks\non which is seated the imperial city.\n\n\nIII.\n\nThe cathedral of Toledo! Imagine a forest of colossal palm trees of\ngranite, that by the interlacing of their branches form a gigantic,\nmagnificent arch, beneath which take refuge and live, with the life\ngenius has lent them, a whole creation of beings, both fictitious and\nreal.\n\nImagine an incomprehensible fall of shadow and light wherein the\ncolored rays from the ogive windows meet and are merged with the dusk of\nthe nave; where the gleam of the lamps struggles and is lost in the\ngloom of the sanctuary.\n\nImagine a world of stone, immense as the spirit of our religion, sombre\nas its traditions, enigmatic as its parables, and yet you will not have\neven a remote idea of this eternal monument of the enthusiasm and faith\nof our ancestors--a monument upon which the centuries have emulously\nlavished their treasures of knowledge, inspiration and the arts.\n\nIn the cathedral-heart dwells silence, majesty, the poetry of mysticism,\nand a holy dread which guards those thresholds against worldly thoughts\nand the paltry passions of earth.\n\nConsumption of the body is stayed by breathing pure mountain air;\natheism should be cured by breathing this atmosphere of faith.\n\nBut great and impressive as the cathedral presents itself to our eyes at\nwhatsoever hour we enter its mysterious and sacred precinct, never does\nit produce an impression so profound as in those days when it arrays\nitself in all the splendors of religious pomp, when its shrines are\ncovered with gold and jewels, its steps with costly carpeting and its\npillars with tapestry.\n\nThen, when its thousand silver lamps, aglow, shed forth a flood of\nlight, when a cloud of incense floats in air, and the voices of the\nchoir, the harmonious pealing of the organs, and the bells of the tower\nmake the building tremble from its deepest foundations to its highest\ncrown of spires, then it is we comprehend, because we feel, the\nineffable majesty of God who dwells within, gives it life with His\nbreath and fills it with the reflection of His glory.\n\nThe same day on which occurred the scene we have just described, the\nlast rites of the magnificent eight-day feast of the Virgin were held in\nthe cathedral.\n\nThe holy festival had attracted an immense multitude of the faithful;\nbut already they had dispersed in all directions; already the lights of\nthe chapels and of the High Altar had been extinguished, and the mighty\ndoors of the temple had groaned upon their hinges as they closed behind\nthe last departing worshipper, when forth from the depth of shadow, and\npale, pale as the statue of the tomb on which he leant for an instant,\nwhile he conquered his emotion, there advanced a man, who came slipping\nwith the utmost stealthiness toward the screen of the central chapel.\nThere the gleam of a lamp made it possible to distinguish his features.\n\nIt was Pedro.\n\nWhat had passed between the two lovers to bring him to the point of\nputting into execution an idea whose mere conception had lifted his hair\nwith horror? That could never be learned.\n\nBut there he was, and he was there to carry out his criminal intent. In\nhis restless glances, in the trembling of his knees, in the sweat which\nran in great drops down his face, his thought stood written.\n\nThe cathedral was alone, utterly alone, and drowned in deepest hush.\n\nNevertheless, there were perceptible from time to time suggestions of\ndim disturbance, creakings of wood maybe or murmurs of the wind, or--who\nknows?--perchance illusion of the fancy, which in its excited moments\nhears and sees and feels what is not; but in very truth there sounded,\nnow here, now there, now behind him, now even at his side, something\nlike sobs suppressed, something like the rustle of trailing robes, and a\nmuffled stir as of steps that go and come unceasingly.\n\nPedro forced himself to hold his course; he reached the grating and\nmounted the first step of the chancel. All along the inner wall of this\nchapel are ranged the tombs of kings, whose images of stone, with hand\nupon the sword-hilt, seem to keep watch night and day over the sanctuary\nin whose shade they take their everlasting rest.\n\n\u201cOnward!\u201d he murmured under his breath, and he strove to move and could\nnot. It seemed as if his feet were nailed to the pavement. He lowered\nhis eyes, and his hair stood on end with horror. The floor of the chapel\nwas made of wide, dark burial slabs.\n\nFor a moment he believed that a cold and fleshless hand was holding him\nthere with strength invincible. The dying lamps, which sparkled in the\nhollow aisles and transepts like lost stars in the dark, wavered before\nhis vision, the statues of the sepulchres wavered and the images of the\naltar, all the cathedral wavered, with its granite arcades and\nbuttresses of solid stone.\n\n\u201cOnward!\u201d Pedro exclaimed again, as if beside himself; he approached the\naltar and climbing upon it, he reached the pedestal of the image. All\nthe space about clothed itself in weird and frightful shapes, all was\nshadow and flickering light, more awful even than total darkness. Only\nthe Queen of Heaven, softly illuminated by a golden lamp, seemed to\nsmile, tranquil, gracious and serene, in the midst of all that horror.\n\nNevertheless, that silent, changeless smile, which calmed him for an\ninstant, in the end filled him with fear, a fear stranger and more\nprofound than what he had suffered hitherto.\n\nYet he regained his self-control, shut his eyes so as not to see her,\nextended his hand with a spasmodic movement and snatched off the golden\nbracelet, pious offering of a sainted archbishop, the golden bracelet\nwhose value equalled a fortune.\n\nNow the jewel was in his possession; his convulsed fingers clutched it\nwith superhuman force; there was nothing left save to flee--to flee\nwith it; but for this it was necessary to open his eyes, and Pedro was\nafraid to see, to see the image, to see the kings of the sepulchres, the\ndemons of the cornices, the griffins of the capitals, the blotches of\nshadow and flashes of light which, like ghostly, gigantic phantoms, were\nmoving slowly in the depths of the nave, now filled with confused\nnoises, unearthly and appalling.\n\nAt last he opened his eyes, cast one glance about him, and from his lips\nescaped a piercing cry.\n\nThe cathedral was full of statues, statues which, clothed in strange,\nflowing raiment, had descended from their niches and were thronging all\nthe vast compass of the church, staring at him with their hollow eyes.\n\nSaints, nuns, angels, devils, warriors, great ladies, pages, hermits,\npeasants surrounded him on every side and were massed confusedly in the\nopen spaces and about the altar. Before it there officiated, in presence\nof the kings who were kneeling upon their tombs, the marble archbishops\nwhom he had seen heretofore stretched motionless upon their beds of\ndeath, while a whole world of granite beasts and creeping things,\nwrithing over the paving-stones, twisting along the buttresses, curled\nup in the canopies, swinging from the vaulted roof, quivered into life\nlike worms in a giant corpse, fantastic, distorted, hideous.\n\nHe could resist no longer. His brows throbbed with terrible violence; a\ncloud of blood darkened his vision; he uttered a second scream, a scream\nheart-rending, inhuman, and fell swooning across the altar.\n\nWhen the sacristans found him crouching on the altar steps the next\nmorning, he still clutched the golden bracelet in both hands and on\nseeing them draw near, he shrieked with discordant yells of laughter:\n\n\u201cHers! hers!\u201d\n\nThe poor wretch had gone mad.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RAY OF MOONSHINE\n\n\nI do not know whether this is history which seems like a tale, or a tale\nwhich seems like history; what I can affirm is that in its core it\ncontains a truth, a truth supremely sad, which in all likelihood I, with\nmy imaginative tendencies, will be one of the last to take to heart.\n\nAnother with this idea would perhaps have made a book of melancholy\nphilosophy. I have written this legend that those who see nothing of its\ndeep meaning may at least derive from it a moment of entertainment.\n\n\nI.\n\nHe was noble, he had been born amid the clash of arms, and yet the\nsudden blare of a war trumpet would not have caused him to lift his head\nan instant or turn his eyes an inch away from the dim parchment in which\nhe was reading the last song of a troubadour.\n\nThose who desired to see him had no need to look for him in the spacious\ncourt of his castle, where the grooms were breaking in the colts, the\npages teaching the falcons to fly, and the soldiers employing their\nleisure days in sharpening on stones the iron points of their lances.\n\n\u201cWhere is Manrico? Where is your lord?\u201d his mother would sometimes ask.\n\n\u201cWe do not know,\u201d the servants would reply. \u201cPerchance he is in the\ncloister of the monastery of the Pe\u00f1a, seated on the edge of a tomb,\nlistening to see if he may\n\n[Illustration: THE BRIDGE OF TOLEDO]\n\nsurprise some word of the conversation of the dead; or on the bridge\nwatching the river-waves chasing one another under its arches, or curled\nup in the fissure of some rock counting the stars in the sky, following\nwith his eyes a cloud, or contemplating the will-o\u2019-the-wisps that flit\nlike exhalations over the surface of the marshes. Wherever he is, it is\nwhere he has least company.\u201d\n\nIn truth, Manrico was a lover of solitude, and so extreme a lover that\nsometimes he would have wished to be a body without a shadow, because\nthen his shadow would not follow him everywhere he went.\n\nHe loved solitude, because in its bosom he would invent, giving free\nrein to his imagination, a phantasmal world, inhabited by wonderful\nbeings, daughters of his weird fancies and his poetic dreams; for\nManrico was a poet,--so true a poet that never had he found adequate\nforms in which to utter his thoughts nor had he ever imprisoned them in\nwords.\n\nHe believed that among the red coals of the hearth there dwelt\nfire-spirits of a thousand hues which ran like golden insects along the\nenkindled logs or danced in a luminous whirl of sparks on the pointed\nflames, and he passed long hours of inaction seated on a low stool by\nthe high Gothic chimney-place, motionless, his eyes fixed on the fire.\n\nHe believed that in the depths of the waves of the river, among the\nmosses of the fountain and above the mists of the lake there lived\nmysterious women, sibyls, nymphs, undines, who breathed forth laments\nand sighs, or sang and laughed in the monotonous murmur of the water, a\nmurmur to which he listened in silence, striving to translate it.\n\nIn the clouds, in the air, in the depths of the groves, in the clefts of\nthe rocks, he imagined that he perceived forms, or heard mysterious\nsounds, forms of supernatural beings, indistinct words which he could\nnot comprehend.\n\nLove! He had been born to dream love, not to feel it. He loved all women\nan instant, this one because she was golden-haired, that one because she\nhad red lips, another because in walking she swayed as a river-reed.\n\nSometimes his delirium reached the point of his spending an entire night\ngazing at the moon, which floated in heaven in a silvery mist, or at the\nstars, which twinkled afar off like the changing lights of precious\nstones. In those long nights of poetic wakefulness, he would exclaim:\n\u201cIf it is true, as the Prior of the Pe\u00f1a has told me, that it is\npossible those points of light may be worlds, if it is true that people\nlive on that pearly orb which rides above the clouds, how beautiful must\nthe women of those luminous regions be! and I shall not be able to see\nthem, and I shall not be able to love them! What must their beauty be!\nAnd what their love!\u201d\n\nManrico was not yet so demented that the boys would run after him, but\nhe was sufficiently so to talk and gesticulate to himself, which is\nwhere madness begins.\n\n\nII.\n\nOver the Douro, which ran lapping the weatherworn and darkened stones of\nthe walls of Soria, there is a bridge leading from the city to the old\nconvent of the Templars, whose estates extended along the opposite bank\nof the river.\n\nAt the time to which we refer, the knights of the Order had already\nabandoned their historic fortresses, but there still remained standing\nthe ruins of the large round towers of their walls,--there still might\nbe seen, as in part may be seen to-day, covered with ivy and white\nmorning-glories the massive arches of their cloister and the long ogive\ngalleries of their courts of arms through which the wind would breathe\nsoft sighs, stirring the deep foliage.\n\nIn the orchards and in the gardens, whose paths the feet of the monks\nhad not trodden for many years, vegetation, left to itself, made\nholiday, without fear that the hand of man should mutilate it in the\neffort to embellish. Climbing plants crept upward twining about the aged\ntrunks of the trees; the shady paths through aisles of poplars, whose\nleafy tops met and mingled, were overgrown with turf; spear-plumed\nthistles and nettles had shot up in the sandy roads, and in the parts of\nthe building which were bulging out, ready to fall; the yellow\ncrucifera, floating in the wind like the crested feathers of a helmet,\nand bell-flowers, white and blue, balancing themselves, as in a swing,\non their long and flexible stems, proclaimed the conquest of decay and\nruin.\n\nIt was night, a summer night, mild, full of perfumes and peaceful\nsounds, and with a moon, white and serene, high in the blue, luminous,\ntransparent heavens.\n\nManrico, his imagination seized by a poetic frenzy, after crossing the\nbridge from which he contemplated for a moment the dark silhouette of\nthe city outlined against the background of some pale, soft clouds\nmassed on the horizon, plunged into the deserted ruins of the Templars.\n\nIt was midnight. The moon, which had been slowly rising, was now at the\nzenith, when, on entering a dusky avenue that led from the demolished\ncloister to the bank of the Douro, Manrico uttered a low, stifled cry,\nstrangely compounded of surprise, fear and joy.\n\nIn the depths of the dusky avenue he had seen moving something white,\nwhich shimmered a moment and then vanished in the darkness, the trailing\nrobe of a woman, of a woman who had crossed the path and disappeared\namid the foliage at the very instant when the mad dreamer of absurd,\nimpossible dreams penetrated into the gardens.\n\nAn unknown woman!--In this place!--At this hour! \u201cThis, this is the\nwoman of my quest,\u201d exclaimed Manrico, and he darted forward in pursuit,\nswift as an arrow.\n\n\nIII.\n\nHe reached the spot where he had seen the mysterious woman disappear in\nthe thick tangle of the branches. She had gone. Whither? Afar, very far,\nhe thought he descried, among the crowding trunks of the trees,\nsomething like a shining, or a white, moving form. \u201cIt is she, it is\nshe, who has wings on her feet and flees like a shadow!\u201d he said, and\nrushed on in his search, parting with his hands the network of ivy which\nwas spread like a tapestry from poplar to poplar. By breaking through\nbrambles and parasitical growths, he made his way to a sort of platform\non which the moonlight dazzled.--Nobody!--\u201cAh, but by this path, but by\nthis she slips away!\u201d he then exclaimed. \u201cI hear her footsteps on the\ndry leaves, and the rustle of her dress as it sweeps over the ground and\nbrushes against the shrubs.\u201d And he ran,--ran like a madman, hither and\nthither, and did not find her. \u201cBut still comes the sound of her\nfootfalls,\u201d he murmured again. \u201cI think she spoke; beyond a doubt, she\nspoke. The wind which sighs among the branches, the leaves which seem to\nbe praying in low voices, prevented my hearing what she said, but beyond\na doubt she fleets by yonder path; she spoke, she spoke. In what\nlanguage? I know not, but it is a foreign speech.\u201d And again he ran\nonward in pursuit, sometimes thinking he saw her, sometimes that he\nheard her; now noticing that the branches, among which she had\ndisappeared, were still in motion; now imagining that he distinguished\nin the sand the prints of her little feet; again firmly persuaded that a\nspecial fragrance which crossed the air from time to time was an aroma\nbelonging to that woman who was making sport of him, taking pleasure in\neluding him among these intricate growths of briers and brambles. Vain\nattempt!\n\nHe wandered some hours from one spot to another, beside himself, now\npausing to listen, now gliding with the utmost precaution over the\nherbage, now in frantic and desperate race.\n\nPushing on, pushing on through the immense gardens which bordered the\nriver, he came at last to the foot of the cliff on which rises the\nhermitage of San Saturio. \u201cPerhaps from this height I can get my\nbearings for pursuing my search across this confused labyrinth,\u201d he\nexclaimed, climbing from rock to rock with the aid of his dagger.\n\nHe reached the summit whence may be seen the city in the distance and,\ncurving at his feet, a great part of the Douro, compelling its dark,\nimpetuous stream onward through the winding banks that imprison it.\n\nManrico, once on the top of the cliff, turned his gaze in every\ndirection, till, bending and fixing it at last on a certain point, he\ncould not restrain an oath.\n\nThe sparkling moonlight glistened on the wake left behind by a boat,\nwhich, rowed at full speed, was making for the opposite shore.\n\nIn that boat he thought he had distinguished a white and slender figure,\na woman without doubt, the woman whom he had seen in the grounds of the\nTemplars, the woman of his dreams, the realization of his wildest hopes.\nHe sped down the cliff with the agility of a deer, threw his cap, whose\ntall, full plume might hinder him in running, to the ground, and freeing\nhimself from his heavy velvet cloak, shot like a meteor toward the\nbridge.\n\nHe believed he could cross it and reach the city before the boat would\ntouch the further bank. Folly! When Manrico, panting and covered with\nsweat, reached the city gate, already they who had crossed the Douro\nover against San Saturio were entering Soria by one of the posterns in\nthe wall, which, at that time, extended to the bank of the river whose\nwaters mirrored its gray battlements.\n\n\nIV.\n\nAlthough his hope of overtaking those who had entered by the postern\ngate of San Saturio was dissipated, that of tracing out the house which\nsheltered them in the city was not therefore abandoned by our hero. With\nhis mind fixed upon this idea, he entered the town and, taking his way\ntoward the ward of San Juan, began roaming its streets at hazard.\n\nThe streets of Soria were then, and they are to-day, narrow, dark and\ncrooked. A profound silence reigned in them, a silence broken only by\nthe distant barking of a dog, the barring of a gate or the neighing of a\ncharger, whose pawing made the chain which fastened him to the manger\nrattle in the subterranean stables.\n\nManrico, with ear attent to these vague noises of the night, which at\ntimes seemed to be the footsteps of some person who had just turned the\nlast corner of a deserted street, at others, the confused voices of\npeople who were talking behind him and whom every moment he expected to\nsee at his side, spent several hours running at random from one place to\nanother.\n\nAt last he stopped beneath a great stone mansion, dark and very old,\nand, standing there, his eyes shone with an indescribable expression of\njoy. In one of the high ogive windows of what we might call a palace, he\nsaw a ray of soft and mellow light which, passing through some thin\ndraperies of rose-colored silk, was reflected on the time-blackened,\nweather-cracked wall of the house across the way.\n\n\u201cThere is no doubt about it; here dwells my unknown lady,\u201d murmured the\nyouth in a low voice, without removing his eyes for a second from the\nGothic window. \u201cHere she dwells! She entered by the postern gate of San\nSaturio,--by the postern gate of San Saturio is the way to this ward--in\nthis ward there is a house where, after midnight, there is some one\nawake--awake? Who can it be at this hour if not she, just returned from\nher nocturnal excursions? There is no more room for doubt; this is her\nhome.\u201d\n\nIn this firm persuasion and revolving in his head the maddest and most\ncapricious fantasies, he awaited dawn opposite the Gothic window where\nthere was a light all night and from which he did not withdraw his gaze\na moment.\n\nWhen daybreak came, the massive gates of the arched entrance to the\nmansion, on whose keystone was sculptured the owner\u2019s coat of arms,\nturned ponderously on their hinges with a sharp and prolonged creaking.\nA servitor appeared on the threshold with a bunch of keys in his hand,\nrubbing his eyes, and showing as he yawned a set of great teeth which\nmight well rouse envy in a crocodile.\n\nFor Manrico to see him and to rush to the gate was the work of an\ninstant.\n\n\u201cWho lives in this house? What is her name? Her country? Why has she\ncome to Soria? Has she a husband? Answer, answer, animal!\u201d This was the\nsalutation which, shaking him violently by the shoulder, Manrico hurled\nat the poor servitor, who, after staring at him a long while with\nfrightened, stupefied eyes, replied in a voice broken with amazement:\n\n\u201cIn this house lives the right honorable Se\u00f1or don Alonso de\nValdecuellos, Master of the Horse to our lord, the King. He has been\nwounded in the war with the Moors and is now in this city recovering\nfrom his injuries.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! well! His daughter?\u201d broke in the impatient youth. \u201cHis daughter,\nor his sister, or his wife, or whoever she may be?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has no woman in his family.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo woman! Then who sleeps in that chamber there, where all night long I\nhave seen a light burning?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere? There sleeps my lord Don Alonso, who, as he is ill, keeps his\nlamp burning till dawn.\u201d\n\nA thunderbolt, suddenly falling at his feet, would not have given\nManrico a greater shock than these words.\n\n\nV.\n\n\u201cI must find her, I must find her; and if I find her, I am almost\ncertain I shall recognize her. How?--I cannot tell--but recognize her I\nmust. The echo of her footstep, or a single word of hers which I may\nhear again; the hem of her robe, only the hem which I may see again\nwould be enough to make me sure of her. Night and day I see floating\nbefore my eyes those folds of a fabric diaphanous and whiter than snow,\nnight and day there is sounding here within, within my head, the soft\nrustle of her raiment, the vague murmur of her unintelligible\nwords.--What said she?--What said she? Ah, if I might only know what she\nsaid, perchance--but yet without knowing it, I shall find her--I shall\nfind her--my heart tells me so, and my heart deceives me never.--It is\ntrue that I have unavailingly traversed all the streets of Soria, that I\nhave passed nights upon nights in the open air, a corner-post; that I\nhave spent more than twenty golden coins in persuading duennas and\nservants to gossip; that I gave holy water in St. Nicholas to an old\ncrone muffled up so artfully in her woollen mantle that she seemed to me\na goddess; and on coming out, after matins, from the collegiate church,\nin the dusk before the dawn, I followed like a fool the litter of the\narchdeacon, believing that the hem of his vestment was that of the robe\nof my unknown lady--but it matters not--I must find her, and the rapture\nof possessing her will assuredly surpass the labors of the quest.\n\n\u201cWhat will her eyes be? They should be azure, azure and liquid as the\nsky of night. How I delight in eyes of that color! They are so\nexpressive, so dreamy, so--yes,--no doubt of it; azure her eyes should\nbe, azure they are, assuredly;--and her tresses black, jet black and so\nlong that they wave upon the air--it seems to me I saw them waving that\nnight, like her robe, and they were black--I do not deceive myself, no;\nthey were black.\n\n\u201cAnd how well azure eyes, very large and slumbrous, and loose tresses,\nwaving and dark, become a tall woman--for--she is tall, tall and\nslender, like those angels above the portals of our basilicas, angels\nwhose oval faces the shadows of their granite canopies veil in mystic\ntwilight.\n\n\u201cHer voice!--her voice I have heard--her voice is soft as the breathing\nof the wind in the leaves of the poplars, and her walk measured and\nstately like the cadences of a musical instrument.\n\n\u201cAnd this woman, who is lovely as the loveliest of my youthful dreams,\nwho thinks as I think, who enjoys what I enjoy, who hates what I hate,\nwho is a twin spirit of my spirit, who is the complement of my being,\nmust she not feel moved on meeting me? Must she not love me as I shall\nlove her, as I love her already, with all the strength of my life, with\nevery faculty of my soul?\n\n\u201cBack, back to the place where I saw her for the first and only time\nthat I have seen her. Who knows but that, capricious as myself, a lover\nof solitude and mystery like all dreamy souls, she may take pleasure in\nwandering among the ruins in the silence of the night?\u201d\n\nTwo months had passed since the servitor of Don Alonso de Valdecuellos\nhad disillusionized the infatuated Manrico, two months in every hour of\nwhich he had built a castle in the air only for reality to shatter with\na breath; two months during which he had sought in vain that unknown\nwoman for whom an absurd love had been growing in his soul, thanks to\nhis still more absurd imaginations; two months had flown since his first\nadventure when now, after crossing, absorbed in these ideas, the bridge\nwhich leads to the convent of the Templars, the enamored youth plunged\nagain into the intricate pathways of the gardens.\n\n\nVI.\n\nThe night was calm and beautiful, the full moon shone high in the\nheavens, and the wind sighed with the sweetest of murmurs among the\nleaves of the trees.\n\nManrico arrived at the cloister, swept his glance over the enclosed\ngreen and peered through the massive arches of the arcades. It was\ndeserted.\n\nHe went forth, turned his steps toward the dim avenue that leads to the\nDouro, and had not yet entered it when there escaped from his lips a cry\nof joy.\n\nHe had seen floating for an instant, and then disappearing, the hem of\nthe white robe, of the white robe of the woman of his dreams, of the\nwoman whom now he loved like a madman.\n\nHe runs, he runs in his pursuit, he reaches the spot where he had seen\nher vanish; but there he stops, fixes his terrified eyes upon the\nground, remains a moment motionless, a slight nervous tremor agitates\nhis limbs, a tremor which increases, which increases, and shows symptoms\nof an actual convulsion--and he breaks out at last into a peal of\nlaughter, laughter loud, strident, horrible.\n\nThat white object, light, floating, had again shone before his eyes, it\nhad even glittered at his feet for an instant, only for an instant.\n\nIt was a moonbeam, a moonbeam which pierced from time to time the green\nvaulted roof of trees when the wind moved their boughs.\n\nSeveral years had passed. Manrico, crouched on a settle by the deep\nGothic chimney of his castle, almost motionless and with a vague, uneasy\ngaze like that of an idiot, would scarcely take notice either of the\nendearments of his mother or of the attentions of his servants.\n\n\u201cYou are young, you are comely,\u201d she would say to him, \u201cwhy do you\nlanguish in solitude? Why do you not seek a woman whom you may love, and\nwhose love may make you happy?\u201d\n\n\u201cLove! Love is a ray of moonshine,\u201d murmured the youth.\n\n\u201cWhy do you not throw off this lethargy?\u201d one of his squires would ask.\n\u201cArm yourself in iron from head to foot, bid us unfurl to the winds your\nillustrious banner, and let us march to the war. In war is glory.\u201d\n\n\u201cGlory!--Glory is a ray of moonshine.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you like to have me recite you a ballad, the latest that Sir\nArnaldo, the Proven\u00e7al troubadour, has composed?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! no!\u201d exclaimed the youth, straightening himself angrily on his\nseat, \u201cI want nothing--that is--yes, I want--I want you should leave me\nalone. Ballads--women--glory--happiness--lies are they all--vain\nfantasies which we shape in our imagination and clothe according to our\nwhim, and we love them and run after them--for what? for what? To find a\nray of moonshine.\u201d\n\nManrico was mad; at least, all the world thought so. For myself, on the\ncontrary, I think what he had done was to regain his senses.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL\u2019S CROSS\n\nWhether you believe it or not matters little. My grandfather told it to\nmy father; my father related it to me, and I now recount it to you,\nalthough it may serve for nothing more than to pass an idle hour.\n\n\nI.\n\nTwilight was beginning to spread its soft, dim wings over the\npicturesque banks of the Segre, when after a fatiguing day\u2019s travel we\nreached Bellver, the end of our journey.\n\nBellver is a small town situated on the slope of a hill, beyond which\nmay be seen, rising like the steps of a colossal granite amphitheatre,\nthe lofty, enclouded crests of the Pyrenees.\n\nThe white villages that encircle the town, sprinkled here and there over\nan undulating plain of verdure, appear from a distance like a flock of\ndoves which have lowered their flight to quench their thirst in the\nwaters of the river.\n\nA naked crag, at whose foot the river makes a bend and on whose summit\nmay still be seen ancient architectural remains, marks the old boundary\nline between the earldom of Urgel and the most important of its fiefs.\n\nAt the right of the winding path which leads to this point, going up the\nriver and following its curves and luxuriant banks, one comes upon a\ncross.\n\nThe stem and the arms are of iron; the circular base on which it rests\nis of marble, and the stairway that leads to it of dark and ill-fitted\nfragments of hewn stone.\n\nThe destructive action of time, which has covered the metal with rust,\nhas broken and worn away the stone of this monument in whose crevices\ngrow certain climbing plants, mounting in their interwoven growth until\nthey crown it, while an old, wide-spreading oak serves it as canopy.\n\nI was some moments in advance of my travelling companions, and halting\nmy poor beast, I contemplated in silence that cross, mute and simple\nexpression of the faith and piety of other ages.\n\nAt that instant a world of ideas thronged my imagination,--ideas faint\nand fugitive, without definite form, which were yet bound together, as\nby an invisible thread of light, by the profound solitude of those\nplaces, the deep silence of the gathering night and the vague melancholy\nof my soul.\n\nImpelled by a religious impulse, spontaneous and indefinable, I\ndismounted mechanically, uncovered, commenced to search my memory for\none of those prayers which I was taught when a child,--one of those\nprayers that, later in life, involuntarily escaping from our lips, seem\nto lighten the burdened heart and, like tears, relieve sorrow, which\ntakes these natural outlets.\n\nI had begun to murmur such a prayer, when suddenly I felt myself\nviolently seized by the shoulders.\n\nI turned my head. A man was standing at my side.\n\nHe was one of our guides, a native of the region, who, with an\nindescribable expression of terror depicted on his face, strove to drag\nme away with him and to cover my head with the hat which I still held in\nmy hands.\n\nMy first glance, half astonishment, half anger, was equivalent to a\nsharp, though silent, interrogation.\n\nThe poor fellow, without ceasing his efforts to withdraw me from that\nplace, replied to it with these words which then I could not comprehend\nbut which had in them an accent of sincerity that impressed me:--\u201cBy the\nmemory of your mother! by that which you hold most sacred in the world,\n_se\u00f1orito_, cover your head and flee faster than flight itself from\nthat cross. Are you so desperate that, the help of God not being enough,\nyou call on that of the Devil?\u201d\n\nI stood a moment looking at him in silence. Frankly, I thought he was a\nmadman; but he went on with equal vehemence:\n\n\u201cYou seek the frontier; well, then, if before this cross you ask that\nheaven will give you aid, the tops of the neighboring mountains will\nrise, in a single night, to the invisible stars, so that we shall not\nfind the boundary in all our life.\u201d\n\nI could not help smiling.\n\n\u201cYou take it in jest?--You think perhaps that this is a holy cross like\nthe one in the porch of our church?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho doubts it?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you are mistaken out and out, for this cross--saving its divine\nassociation--is accursed; this cross belongs to a demon and for that\nreason is called The Devil\u2019s Cross.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Devil\u2019s Cross!\u201d I repeated, yielding to his insistence without\naccounting to myself for the involuntary fear which began to oppress my\nspirit, and which repelled me as an unknown force from that place. \u201cThe\nDevil\u2019s Cross! Never has my imagination been wounded with a more\ninconsistent union of two ideas so absolutely at variance. A cross!\nand--the Devil\u2019s! Come, come! When we reach the town you must explain to\nme this monstrous incongruity.\u201d\n\nDuring this short dialogue our comrades, who had spurred their sorry\nnags, joined us at the foot of the cross. I told them briefly what had\ntaken place: I remounted my hack, and the bells of the parish were\nslowly calling to prayer when we alighted at the most out-of-the-way and\nobscure of the inns of Bellver.\n\n\nII.\n\nRosy and azure flames were curling and crackling all along the huge oak\nlog which burned in the wide fire-place; our shadows, thrown in\nwavering grotesques on the blackened walls, dwindled or grew gigantic\naccording as the blaze emitted more or less brilliancy; the alderwood\ncup, now empty, now full (and not with water), like the buckets of an\nirrigating wheel, had been thrice passed round the circle that we formed\nabout the fire, and all were awaiting impatiently the story of The\nDevil\u2019s Cross, promised us by way of dessert after the frugal supper\nwhich we had just eaten, when our guide coughed twice, tossed down a\nlast draught of wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and began\nthus:\n\n\u201cIt was a long, long time ago, how long I cannot say, but the Moors were\noccupying yet the greater part of Spain, our kings were called counts,\nand the towns and villages were held in fief by certain lords, who in\nturn rendered homage to others more powerful, when that event which I am\nabout to relate took place.\u201d\n\nAfter this brief historical introduction, the hero of the occasion\nremained silent some few moments, as if to arrange his thoughts, and\nproceeded thus:\n\n\u201cWell! the story goes that in that remote time this town and some others\nformed part of the patrimony of a noble baron whose seigniorial castle\nstood for many centuries upon the crest of a crag bathed by the Segre,\nfrom which it takes its name.\n\n\u201cSome shapeless ruins that, overgrown with wild mustard and moss, may\nstill be seen upon the summit from the road which leads to this town,\ntestify to the truth of my story.\n\n\u201cI do not know whether by chance or through some deed of shame it came\nto pass that this lord, who was detested by his vassals for his cruelty,\nand for his evil disposition refused admission to court by the king and\nto their homes by his neighbors, grew weary of living alone with his bad\ntemper and his cross-bowmen on the top of the rock where his\nforefathers had hung their nest of stone.\n\n\u201cNight and day he taxed his wits to find some amusement consonant with\nhis character, which was no easy matter, since he had grown tired of\nmaking war on his neighbors, beating his servants and hanging his\nsubjects.\n\n\u201cAt this time, the chronicles relate, there occurred to him, though\nwithout precedent, a happy idea.\n\n\u201cKnowing that the Christians of other nations were preparing to go\nforth, united in a formidable fleet, to a marvellous country in order to\nreconquer the sepulchre of our Lord Jesus Christ which was in possession\nof the Moors, he determined to join their following.\n\n\u201cWhether he entertained this idea with intent of atoning for his sins,\nwhich were not few, by shedding blood in so righteous a cause; or\nwhether his object was to remove to a place where his vicious deeds were\nnot known, cannot be said; but it is true that to the great satisfaction\nof old and young, of vassals and equals, he gathered together what money\nhe could, released his towns, at a heavy price, from their allegiance,\nand reserving of his estates no more than the crag of the Segre and the\nfour towers of the castle, his ancestral seat, disappeared between the\nnight and the morning.\n\n\u201cThe whole district drew a long breath, as if awakened from a nightmare.\n\n\u201cNow no longer clusters of men, instead of fruits, hung from the trees\nof their orchards; the young peasant girls no longer feared to go, their\njars upon their heads, to draw water from the wells by the wayside; nor\ndid the shepherds lead their flocks to the Segre by the roughest secret\npaths, fearing at every turn of the steep track to encounter the\ncross-bowmen of their dearly beloved lord.\n\n\u201cThus three years elapsed. The story of the Wicked Count, for by that\nname only was he known, had come to be the exclusive possession of the\nold women, who in the long, long winter evenings would relate his\natrocities with hollow and fearful voice to the terrified children,\nwhile mothers would affright their naughty toddlers and crying babies by\nsaying: \u2018_Here comes the Count of the Segre!_\u2019 When behold! I know not\nwhether by day or by night, whether fallen from heaven or cast forth by\nhell, the dreaded Count appeared indeed, and, as we say, in flesh and\nbone, in the midst of his former vassals.\n\n\u201cI forbear to describe the effect of this agreeable surprise. You can\nimagine it better than I can depict it, merely from my telling you that\nhe returned claiming his forfeited rights; that if he went away evil, he\ncame back worse; and that if he was poor and without credit before going\nto the war, now he could count on no other resources than his\ndesperation, his lance and a half dozen adventurers as profligate and\nimpious as their chieftain.\n\n\u201cAs was natural, the towns refused to pay tribute, from which at so\ngreat cost they had bought exemption, but the Count fired their\norchards, their farm-houses and their crops.\n\n\u201cThen they appealed to the royal justice of the realm, but the Count\nridiculed the letters mandatory of his sovereign lords; he nailed them\nover the sally-port of his castle and hung the bearers from an oak.\n\n\u201cExasperated, and seeing no other way of salvation, at last they made a\nleague with one another, commended themselves to Providence and took up\narms; but the Count gathered his followers, called the Devil to his aid,\nmounted his rock and made ready for the struggle.\n\n\u201cIt began, terrible and bloody. There was fighting with all sorts of\nweapons, in all places and at all hours, with sword and fire, on the\nmountain and in the plain, by day and by night.\n\n\u201cThis was not fighting to live; it was living to fight.\n\n\u201cIn the end the cause of justice triumphed. You shall hear how.\n\n\u201cOne dark, intensely dark night, when no sound was heard on earth nor a\nsingle star shone in heaven, the lords of the fortress, elated by a\nrecent victory, divided the booty and, drunk with the fume of the\nliquors, in the midst of their mad and boisterous revel intoned\nsacrilegious songs in praise of their infernal patron.\n\n\u201cAs I have said, nothing was heard around the castle save the echo of\nthe blasphemies which throbbed out into the black bosom of the night\nlike the throbbing of lost souls wrapped in the hurricane folds of hell.\n\n\u201cNow the careless sentinels had several times fixed their eyes on the\nhamlet which rested in silence and, without fear of a surprise, had\nfallen asleep leaning on the thick staves of their lances, when, lo and\nbehold! a few villagers, resolved to die and protected by the darkness,\nbegan to scale the crag of the Segre whose crest they reached at the\nvery moment of midnight.\n\n\u201cOnce on the summit, that which remained for them to do required little\ntime. The sentinels passed with a single bound the barrier which\nseparates sleep from death. Fire, applied with resinous torches to\ndrawbridge and portcullis, leaped with lightning rapidity to the walls,\nand the scaling-party, favored by the confusion and making their way\nthrough the flames, put an end to the occupants of that fortress in the\ntwinkling of an eye.\n\n\u201cAll perished.\n\n\u201cWhen the next day began to whiten the lofty tops of the junipers, the\ncharred remains of the fallen towers were still smoking, and through\ntheir gaping breaches it was easy to discern, glittering as the light\nstruck it, where it hung suspended from one of the blackened pillars of\nthe banquet hall, the armor of the dreaded chieftain whose dead body,\ncovered with blood and dust, lay between the torn tapestries and the hot\nashes, confounded with the corpses of his obscure companions.\n\n\u201cTime passed. Briers began to creep through the deserted courts, ivy to\nclimb the dark heaps of masonry, and the blue morning-glory to sway and\nswing from the very turrets. The changeful sighs of the breeze, the\ncroaking of the birds of night, and the soft stir of reptiles gliding\nthrough the tall weeds alone disturbed from time to time the deathly\nsilence of that accursed place. The unburied bones of its former\ninhabitants lay white in the moonlight and still there could be seen the\nbundled armor of the Count of the Segre hanging from the blackened\npillar of the banquet hall.\n\n\u201cNo one dared touch it, but a thousand fables were current concerning\nit. It was a constant source of foolish reports and terrors among those\nwho saw it flashing in the sunlight by day, or thought they heard in the\ndepths of the night the metallic sound of its pieces as they struck one\nanother when the wind moved them, with a prolonged and doleful groan.\n\n\u201cNotwithstanding all the stories which were set afloat concerning the\narmor and which the people of the surrounding region repeated in hushed\ntones one to another, they were no more than stories, and the only\npositive result was a constant state of fear that every one tried for\nhis own part to dissimulate, putting, as we say, a brave face on it.\n\n\u201cIf the matter had gone no further, no harm would have been done. But\nthe Devil, who apparently was not satisfied with his work, began, no\ndoubt with the permission of God, that so the country might expiate its\nsins, to take a hand in the game.\n\n\u201cFrom that moment the tales, which until then had been nothing more than\nvague rumors without any show of truth, began to assume consistency and\nto grow from day to day more probable.\n\n\u201cFinally there came nights in which all the village-folk were able to\nsee a strange phenomenon.\n\n\u201cAmid the shadows in the distance, now climbing the steep, twisting\npaths of the crag of the Segre, now wandering among the ruins of the\ncastle, now seeming to oscillate in the air, mysterious and fantastic\nlights were seen gliding, crossing, vanishing and reappearing to recede\nin different directions,--lights whose source no one could explain.\n\n\u201cThis was repeated for three or four nights during the space of a month\nand the perplexed villagers looked in disquietude for the result of\nthose conventicles, for which certainly they were not kept waiting long.\nSoon three or four homesteads in flames, a number of missing cattle, and\nthe dead bodies of a few travellers, thrown from precipices, alarmed all\nthe region for ten leagues about.\n\n\u201cNow no doubt remained. A band of evildoers were harboring in the\ndungeons of the castle.\n\n\u201cThese desperadoes, who showed themselves at first only very rarely and\nat definite points of the forest which even to this day extends along\nthe river, finally came to hold almost all the passes of the mountains,\nto lie in ambush by the roads, to plunder the valleys and to descend\nlike a torrent on the plain where, slaughtering indiscriminately, they\ndid not leave a doll with its head on.\n\n\u201cAssassinations multiplied; young girls disappeared and children were\nsnatched from their cradles despite the lamentations of their mothers to\nfurnish those diabolical feasts at which, it was generally believed, the\nsacramental vessels stolen from the profaned churches were used as\ngoblets.\n\n\u201cTerror took such possession of men\u2019s souls that, when the bell rang for\nthe Angelus, nobody dared to leave his house, though even there was no\ncertain security against the banditti of the crag.\n\n\u201cBut who were they? Whence had they come? What was the name of their\nmysterious chief? This was the enigma which all sought to explain, but\nwhich thus far no one could solve, although it was noticed that from\nthis time on the armor of the feudal lord had disappeared from the place\nit had previously occupied, and afterwards various peasants had affirmed\nthat the captain of this inhuman crew marched at its head clad in a suit\nof mail which, if not the same, was its exact counterpart.\n\n\u201cBut in the essential fact, when stripped of that fantastic quality with\nwhich fear augments and embellishes its cherished creations, there was\nnothing necessarily supernatural nor strange.\n\n\u201cWhat was more common in outlaws than the barbarities for which this\nband was distinguished or more natural than that their chief should\navail himself of the abandoned armor of the Count of the Segre?\n\n\u201cBut the dying revelations of one of his followers, taken prisoner in\nthe latest affray, heaped up the measure of evidence, convincing the\nmost incredulous. Less or more in words, the substance of his confession\nwas this:\n\n\u201c\u2018I belong,\u2019 he said, \u2018to a noble family. My youthful irregularities, my\nmad extravagances, and finally my crimes drew upon my head the wrath of\nmy kindred and the curse of my father, who, at his death, disinherited\nme. Finding myself alone and without any resources whatever, it was the\nDevil, without doubt, who must needs suggest to me the idea of gathering\ntogether some youths in a situation similar to my own. These, seduced by\nthe promise of a future of dissipation, liberty and abundance, did not\nhesitate an instant to subscribe to my designs.\n\n\u201c\u2018These designs consisted in forming a band of young men of gay temper,\nunscrupulous and reckless, who thenceforward would live joyously on the\nproduct of their valor and at the cost of the country, until God should\nplease to dispose of each according to His will, as happens to me this\nday.\n\n\u201c\u2018With this object we chose this district as the theatre of our future\nexpeditions, and selected as the point most suitable for our gatherings\nthe abandoned castle of the Segre, a place peculiarly secure, not only\nbecause of its strong and advantageous position, but as defended against\nthe peasantry by their superstitions and dread.\n\n\u201c\u2018Gathered one night under its ruined arcades, around a bonfire that\nillumined with its ruddy glow the deserted galleries, a heated dispute\narose as to which of us should be chosen chief.\n\n\u201c\u2018Each one alleged his merits; I advanced my claims; already some were\nmuttering together with threatening looks, and others, whose voices were\nloud in drunken quarrel, had their hands on the hilts of their poniards\nto settle the question, when we suddenly heard a strange rattling of\narmor, accompanied by hollow, resounding footsteps which became more and\nmore distinct. We all cast around uneasy, suspicious glances. We rose\nand bared our blades, determined to sell our lives dear, but we could\nonly stand motionless on seeing advance, with firm and even tread, a man\nof lofty stature, completely armed from head to foot, his face covered\nwith the visor of his helmet. Drawing his broad-sword, which two men\ncould scarcely wield, and placing it upon one of the charred fragments\nof the fallen arcades, he exclaimed in a voice hollow and deep like the\nmurmurous fall of subterranean waters:\n\n\u201c\u2018_If any one of you dare to be first, while I dwell in the castle of\nthe Segre, let him take up this sword, emblem of power._\n\n\u201c\u2018All were silent until, the first moment of astonishment passed, with\nloud voices we proclaimed him our captain, offering him a glass of our\nwine. This he declined by signs, perchance that he need not reveal his\nface, which in vain we strove to distinguish across the iron bars hiding\nit from our eyes.\n\n\u201c\u2018Nevertheless we swore that night the most terrible oaths, and on the\nfollowing began our nocturnal raids. In these, our mysterious chief went\nalways at our head. Fire does not stop him, nor dangers intimidate him,\nnor tears move him. He never speaks, but when blood smokes on our hands,\nwhen churches fall devoured by the flames, when women flee affrighted\namid the ruins, and children utter screams of pain, and the old men\nperish under our blows, he answers the groans, the imprecations and the\nlamentations with a loud laugh of savage joy.\n\n\u201c\u2018Never does he lay aside his arms nor lift the visor of his helmet\nafter victory nor take part in the feast nor yield himself to slumber.\nThe swords that strike him pierce his armor without causing death or\ndrawing blood; fire reddens his coat of mail and yet he pushes on\nundaunted amid the flames, seeking new victims; he scorns gold, despises\nbeauty, and is not moved by ambition.\n\n\u201c\u2018Among ourselves, some think him a madman, others a ruined noble who\nfrom a remnant of shame conceals his face, and there are not wanting\nthose who are persuaded that it is the very Devil in person.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe author of these revelations died with a mocking smile on his lips\nand without repenting of his sins; divers of his comrades followed him\nat different times to meet their punishment, but the dreaded chief, to\nwhom continually gathered new proselytes, did not cease his ravages.\n\n\u201cThe unhappy inhabitants of the region, more and more harassed and\ndesperate, had not yet achieved that pitch of resolution necessary to\nput an end, once for all, to this order of things, every day more\ninsupportable and grievous.\n\n\u201cAdjoining the hamlet and hidden in the depths of a dense forest, there\ndwelt at this time, in a little hermitage dedicated to Saint\nBartholomew, a holy man of godly and exemplary life, whom the peasants\nalways held in an odor of sanctity, thanks to his wholesome counsels and\nsure predictions.\n\n\u201cThis venerable hermit, to whose prudence and proverbial wisdom the\npeople of Bellver committed the solution of their difficult problem,\nafter seeking divine aid through his patron saint, who, as you know, is\nwell acquainted with the Devil, and on more than one occasion has put\nhim in a tight place, advised that they should lie in ambush during the\nnight at the foot of the stony road which winds up to the rock on whose\nsummit stands the castle. He charged them at the same time that, once\nthere, they should use no other weapons to apprehend the Enemy than a\nwonderful prayer which he had them commit to memory, and with which the\nchronicles assert that Saint Bartholomew had made the Devil his\nprisoner.\n\n\u201cThe plan was put into immediate execution, and its success exceeded all\nhopes, for the morrow\u2019s sun had not lit the high tower of Bellver when\nits inhabitants gathered in groups in the central square, telling one\nanother with an air of mystery how, that night, the famous captain of\nthe banditti of the Segre had come into the town bound hand and foot and\nsecurely tied to the back of a strong mule.\n\n\u201cBy what art the actors in this enterprise had brought it to such\nfortunate issue no one succeeded in finding out nor were they themselves\nable to tell; but the fact remained that, thanks to the prayer of the\nSaint or to the daring of his devotees, the attempt had resulted as\nnarrated.\n\n\u201cAs soon as the news began to spread from mouth to mouth and from house\nto house, throngs rushed into the streets with loud huzzas and were soon\nmassed before the doors of the prison. The parish bell called together\nthe civic body, the most substantial citizens met in council, and all\nawaited in suspense the hour when the criminal should appear before his\nimprovised judges.\n\n\u201cThese judges, who were authorized by the sovereign power of Urgel to\nadminister themselves justice prompt and stern to those malefactors,\ndeliberated but a moment, after which they commanded that the culprit be\nbrought before them to receive his sentence.\n\n\u201cAs I have said, as in the central square, so in the streets through\nwhich the prisoner must pass to the place where he should meet his\njudges, the impatient multitude thronged like a clustered swarm of bees.\nEspecially at the gateway of the prison the popular excitement mounted\nfrom moment to moment, and already animated dialogues, sullen mutterings\nand threatening shouts had begun to give the warders anxiety, when\nfortunately the order came to bring forth the criminal.\n\n\u201cAs he appeared below the massive arch of the prison portal, in complete\narmor, his face covered with the visor, a low, prolonged murmur of\nadmiration and surprise rose from the compact multitude which with\ndifficulty opened to let him pass.\n\n\u201cAll had recognized in that coat of mail the well-known armor of the\nCount of the Segre, that armor which had been the object of the most\ngloomy traditions while it had been hanging from the ruined walls of the\naccursed stronghold.\n\n\u201cThis was that armor; there was left no room for doubt. All had seen the\nblack plume waving from his helmet\u2019s crest in the battles which formerly\nthey had fought against their lord; all had seen it, blowing in the\nmorning breeze, like the ivy of the flame-gnawed pillar on which the\narmor had hung since the death of its owner. But who could be the\nunknown personage who was wearing it now? Soon it would be known; at\nleast, so they thought. Events will show how this expectation, like many\nanother, was frustrated and how out of this solemn act of justice, from\nwhich might have been expected a complete revelation of the truth, there\nresulted new and more inexplicable confusions.\n\n\u201cThe mysterious bandit arrived finally at the Council Hall and a\nprofound silence followed the murmurs which had arisen among the\nbystanders on hearing resound beneath the lofty arches of that chamber\nthe click of his golden spurs. One of the members of the tribunal in a\nslow and uncertain voice asked his name, and all anxiously listened that\nthey might not lose one word of his response, but the warrior only\nshrugged his shoulders lightly with an air of contempt and insult, which\ncould but irritate his judges, who exchanged glances of surprise.\n\n\u201cThree times the question was repeated, and as often received the same\nor a similar reply.\n\n\u201c\u2018Have him lift his visor! Have him show his face! Have him show his\nface!\u2019 the citizens present at the trial began to shout. \u2018Have him show\nhis face! We will see if then he dare insult us with his contempt, as he\ndoes now hidden in his mail.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Show your face,\u2019 demanded the same member of the tribunal who had\nbefore addressed him.\n\n\u201cThe warrior remained motionless.\n\n\u201c\u2018I command you by the authority of this council.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe same answer.\n\n\u201c\u2018By the authority of this realm.\u2019\n\n\u201cNor for that.\n\n\u201cIndignation rose to its height, even to the point where one of the\nguards, throwing himself upon the criminal, whose pertinacious silence\nwas enough to exhaust the patience of a saint, violently opened his\nvisor. A general cry of surprise escaped from those within the hall, who\nremained for an instant smitten with an inconceivable amazement.\n\n\u201cThe cause was adequate.\n\n\u201cThe helmet, whose iron visor, as all could see, was partly lifted\ntoward the forehead, partly fallen over the shining steel gorget, was\nempty,--entirely empty.\n\n\u201cWhen, the first moment of terror passed, they would have touched it,\nthe armor shivered slightly and, breaking asunder into its various\npieces, fell to the floor with a dull, strange clang.\n\n\u201cThe greater part of the spectators, at the sight of the new prodigy,\nforsook the room tumultuously and rushed in terror to the square.\n\n\u201cThe news spread with the speed of thought among the multitude who were\nawaiting impatiently the result of the trial; and such was the alarm,\nthe excitement and the clamor, that no one longer doubted what the\npopular voice had asserted from the first--that the Devil, on the death\nof the Count of the Segre, had inherited the fiefs of Bellver.\n\n\u201cAt last the tumult subsided, and it was decided to return the\nmiraculous armor to the dungeon.\n\n\u201cWhen this was so bestowed, they despatched four envoys, who, as\nrepresenting the perplexed town, should present the case to the royal\nCount of Urgel and the archbishop. In a few days these envoys returned\nwith the decision of those dignitaries, a decision brief and\ncomprehensive.\n\n\u201c\u2018Let the armor be hanged,\u2019 they said, \u2018in the central square of the\ntown; if the Devil occupies it, he will find it necessary to abandon it\nor to be strangled with it.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe people of Bellver, enchanted with so ingenious a solution, again\nassembled in council, ordered a very high gallows to be erected in the\nsquare, and when once more the multitude filled the approaches to the\nprison, went thither for the armor in a body with all the civic dignity\nwhich the importance of the case demanded.\n\n\u201cWhen this honorable delegation arrived at the massive arch giving\nentrance to the building, a pallid and distracted man threw himself to\nthe ground in the presence of the astonished bystanders, exclaiming with\ntears in his eyes:\n\n\u201c\u2018Pardon, _se\u00f1ores_, pardon!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Pardon! For whom?\u2019 said some, \u2018for the Devil, who dwells in the armor\nof the Count of the Segre?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018For me,\u2019 continued with shaking voice the unhappy man in whom all\nrecognized the chief warden of the prison, \u2018for me--because the\narmor--has disappeared.\u2019\n\n\u201cOn hearing these words, amazement was painted on the faces of as many\nas were in the portico; silent and motionless, so they would have\nremained God knows how long if the following narrative of the terrified\nkeeper had not caused them to gather in groups around him, greedy for\nevery word.\n\n\u201c\u2018Pardon me, _se\u00f1ores_,\u2019 said the poor warden, \u2018and I will conceal\nnothing from you, however much it may be against me.\u2019\n\n\u201cAll maintained silence and he went on as follows:\n\n\u201c\u2018I shall never succeed in giving the reason, but the fact is that the\nstory of the empty armor always seemed to me a fable manufactured in\nfavor of some noble personage whom perhaps grave reasons of public\npolicy did not permit the judges to make known or to punish.\n\n\u201c\u2018I was ever of this belief--a belief in which I could not but be\nconfirmed by the immobility in which the armor remained from the hour\nwhen, by the order of the tribunal, it was brought a second time to the\nprison. In vain, night after night, desiring to surprise its secret, if\nsecret there were, I crept up little by little and listened at the\ncracks of the iron door of its dungeon. Not a sound was perceptible.\n\n\u201c\u2018In vain I managed to observe it through a small hole made in the wall;\nthrown upon a little straw in one of the darkest corners, it remained\nday after day disordered and motionless.\n\n\u201c\u2018One night, at last, pricked by curiosity and wishing to convince\nmyself that this object of terror had nothing mysterious about it, I\nlighted a lantern, went down to the dungeons, drew their double bolts\nand, not taking the precaution to shut the doors behind me, so firm was\nmy belief that all this was no more than an old wives\u2019 tale, entered the\ncell. Would I had never done it! Scarcely had I taken a few steps when\nthe light of my lantern went out of itself and my teeth began to chatter\nand my hair to rise. Breaking the profound silence that encompassed me,\nI had heard something like a sound of metal pieces which stirred and\nclanked in fitting themselves together in the gloom.\n\n\u201c\u2018My first movement was to throw myself toward the door to bar the\npassage, but on grasping its panels I felt upon my shoulders a\nformidable hand, gauntleted, which, after jerking me violently aside,\nflung me upon the threshold. There I remained until the next morning\nwhen my subordinates found me unconscious and, on reviving, only able to\nrecollect that after my fall I had seemed to hear, confusedly, a\nsounding tread accompanied by the clatter of spurs, which little by\nlittle grew more distant until it died away.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhen the warden had finished, profound silence reigned, on which there\nfollowed an infernal outbreak of lamentations, shouts and threats.\n\n\u201cIt was with difficulty that the more temperate could control the\npopulace, who, infuriated at this last turn of affairs, demanded with\nfierce outcry the death of the inquisitive author of their new\ndisappointment.\n\n\u201cAt last the tumult was quieted and the people began to lay plans for a\nfresh capture. This attempt, too, had a satisfactory outcome.\n\n\u201cAt the end of a few days, the armor was again in the power of its foes.\nNow that the formula was known and the help of Saint Bartholomew\nsecured, the thing was no longer very difficult.\n\n\u201cBut yet something remained to be done; in vain, after conquering it,\nthey hanged it from a gallows; in vain they exercised the utmost\nvigilance for the purpose of giving it no opportunity to escape by way\nof the upper world. But as soon as two fingers\u2019 breadth of light fell on\nthe scattered pieces of armor, they fitted themselves together and,\nclinkity clank, made off again to resume their raids over mountain and\nplain, which was a blessing indeed.\n\n\u201cThis was a story without an end.\n\n\u201cIn so critical a state of affairs, the people divided among themselves\nthe pieces of the armor that, perchance for the hundredth time, had come\ninto their possession, and prayed the pious hermit, who had once before\nenlightened them with his counsel, to decide what they should do with\nit.\n\n\u201cThe holy man ordained a general fast. He buried himself for three days\nin the depths of a cavern that served him as a retreat and at their end\nbade them melt the diabolical armor and with this and some hewn stones\nfrom the castle of the Segre, erect a cross.\n\n\u201cThe work was carried through, although not without new and fearful\nprodigies which filled with terror the souls of the dismayed inhabitants\nof Bellver.\n\n\u201cAs soon as the pieces thrown into the flames began to redden, long and\ndeep groans seemed to come out of the great blaze, within whose circle\nof fuel the armor leapt as if it were alive and felt the action of the\nfire. A whirl of sparks red, green and blue danced on the points of the\nspiring flames and twisted about hissing, as if a legion of devils,\nmounted on these, would fight to free their lord from that torment.\n\n\u201cStrange, horrible, was the process by which the incandescent armor lost\nits form to take that of a cross.\n\n\u201cThe hammers fell clanging with a frightful uproar upon the anvil, where\ntwenty sturdy smiths beat into shape the bars of boiling metal that\nquivered and groaned beneath the blows.\n\n\u201cAlready the arms of the sign of our redemption were outspread, already\nthe upper end was beginning to take form, when the fiendish, glowing\nmass writhed anew, as if in frightful convulsion, and enfolding the\nunfortunate workmen, who struggled to free themselves from its deadly\nembrace, glittered in rings like a serpent or contracted itself in\nzigzag like lightning.\n\n\u201cIncessant labor, faith, prayers and holy water succeeded, at last, in\novercoming the infernal spirit, and the armor was converted into a\ncross.\n\n\u201cThis cross it is you have seen to-day, the cross in which the Devil who\ngives it its name is bound. Before it the young people in the month of\nMay place no clusters of lilies, nor do the shepherds uncover as they\npass by, nor the old folk kneel; the strict admonitions of the priest\nscarcely prevent the boys from stoning it.\n\n\u201cGod has closed His ears to all supplications offered Him in its\npresence. In the winter, packs of wolves gather about the juniper which\novershadows it to rush upon the herds; banditti wait in its shade for\ntravellers whose slain bodies they bury at its foot, and when the\ntempest rages, the lightnings deviate from their course to meet,\nhissing, at the head of this cross and to rend the stones of its\npedestal.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHREE DATES\n\n\nIn a portfolio which I still treasure, full of idle drawings made during\nsome of my semi-artistic excursions to the city of Toledo, are written\nthree dates.\n\nThe events whose memory these figures keep are up to a certain point\ninsignificant.\n\nNevertheless, by recollecting them I have entertained myself on certain\nwakeful nights in shaping a novel more or less sentimental or sombre, in\nproportion as my imagination found itself more or less exalted, and\ndisposed toward the humorous or tragic view of life.\n\nIf on the morning following one of these darkling, delirious reveries, I\nhad tried to write out the extraordinary episodes of the impossible\nfictions which I invented before my eyelids utterly closed, these\nromances, whose dim d\u00e9nouement finally floats undetermined on that sea\nbetween waking and sleep, would assuredly form a book of preposterous\ninconsistencies but original and peradventure interesting.\n\nThis is not what I am attempting now. These light--one might almost say\nimpalpable--fantasies are in a sense like butterflies which cannot be\ncaught in the hands without there being left between the fingers the\ngolden dust of their wings.\n\nI am going to confine myself, then, to the brief narration of three\nevents which are wont to serve as headings for the chapters of my\ndream-novels; the three isolated points which I am accustomed to connect\nin my mind by a series of ideas like a shining thread; the three themes,\nin short, upon which I play thousands on thousands of variations,\namounting to what might be called absurd symphonies of the imagination.\n\n\nI.\n\nThere is in Toledo a narrow street, crooked and dim, which guards so\nfaithfully the traces of the hundred generations that have dwelt in it,\nwhich speaks so eloquently to the eyes of the artist and reveals to him\nso many secret points of affinity between the ideas and customs of each\ncentury, and the form and special character impressed upon even its most\ninsignificant works, that I would close the entrances with a barrier and\nplace above the barrier a shield with this device:\n\n\u201cIn the name of poets and artists, in the name of those who dream and of\nthose who study, civilization is forbidden to touch the least of these\nbricks with its destructive and prosaic hand.\u201d\n\nAt one of the ends of this street, entrance is afforded by a massive\narch, flat and dark, which provides a covered passage.\n\nIn its keystone is an escutcheon, battered now and corroded by the\naction of the years; in it grows ivy which, blown by the air, floats\nabove the helmet, that crowns it, like a plumy crest.\n\nBelow the vaulting and nailed to the wall is seen a shrine with a sacred\npicture of blackened canvas and undecipherable design, in frame of gilt\nrococo, with its lantern hanging by a cord and with its waxen votive\nofferings.\n\nLeading away from this arch, which enfolds the whole place in its\nshadow, giving to it an undescribable tint of mystery and sadness,\nextend on the two sides of the street lines of dusky, dissimilar,\nodd-looking houses, each having its individual form, size and color.\nSome are built of rough, uneven stones, without other adornment than a\nfew armorial bearings rudely carved above the portal; others are of\nbrick, with an Arab arch for entrance, two or three Moorish windows\nopening at caprice in a thick, fissured wall, and a glassed observation\nturret topped by a lofty weather-vane. Some have a general aspect which\ndoes not belong to any order of architecture and yet is a patchwork of\nall; some are finished models of a distinct and recognized style, some\ncurious examples of the extravagances of an artistic period.\n\nHere are some that boast a wooden balcony with incongruous roof; there\nare others with a Gothic window freshly whitened and adorned with pots\nof flowers; and yonder is one with crudely colored tiles set into its\ndoor-frame, huge spikes in its panels, and the shafts of two columns,\nperhaps taken from a Moorish castle, mortised into the wall.\n\nThe palace of a grandee converted into a tenement-house; the home of a\npundit occupied by a prebendary; a Jewish synagogue transformed into a\nChristian church; a convent erected on the ruins of an Arab mosque whose\nminaret is still standing; a thousand strange and picturesque contrasts;\nthousands on thousands of curious traces left by distinct races,\ncivilizations and epochs epitomized, so to speak, on one hundred yards\nof ground. All the past is in this one street,--a street built up\nthrough many centuries, a narrow, dim, disfigured street with an\ninfinite number of twists where each man in building his house had\njutted out or left a corner or made an angle to suit his own taste,\nregardless of level, height or regularity,--a street rich in\nuncalculated combinations of lines, with a veritable wealth of whimsical\ndetails, with so many, many chance effects that on every visit it offers\nto the student something new.\n\nWhen I was first at Toledo, while I was busying myself in making a few\nsketch-book notes of _San Juan de los Reyes_, I had to go through this\nstreet every afternoon in order to reach the convent from the little\ninn, with hotel pretensions, where I lodged.\n\nAlmost always I would traverse the street from one end to the other\nwithout meeting a single person, without any further\n\n[Illustration: CLOISTER OF SAN JUAN DE LOS REYES]\n\nsound than my own footfalls disturbing the deep silence, without even\ncatching a chance glimpse, behind balcony-blind, door-screen or\ncasement-lattice, of the wrinkled face of a peering old woman, or the\ngreat black eyes of a Toledan girl. Sometimes I seemed to myself to be\nwalking through the midst of a deserted city, abandoned by its\ninhabitants since ages far remote.\n\nYet one afternoon, on passing in front of a very ancient, gloomy\nmansion, in whose lofty, massive walls might be seen three or four\nwindows of dissimilar form, placed without order or symmetry, I happened\nto fix my attention on one of these. It was formed by a great ogee arch\nsurrounded by a wreath of sharply pointed leaves. The arch was closed in\nby a light wall, recently built and white as snow. In the middle of\nthis, as if contained in the original window, might be seen a little\ncasement with frame and gratings painted green, with a flower-pot of\nblue morning-glories whose sprays were clambering up over the\ngranite-work, and with panes of leaded glass curtained by white cloth\nthin and translucent.\n\nThe window of itself, peculiar as it was, would have been enough to\narrest the gaze, but the circumstance most effective in fixing my\nattention upon it was that, just as I turned my head to look at it, the\ncurtain had been lifted for a moment only to fall again, concealing from\nmy eyes the person who undoubtedly was at that same instant looking\nafter me.\n\nI pursued my way preoccupied with the idea of the window, or, rather,\nthe curtain, or, to put it still more clearly, the woman who had raised\nit, for beyond all doubt only a woman could be peeping out from that\nwindow so poetic, so white, so green, so full of flowers, and when I say\na woman, be it understood that she is imaged as young and beautiful.\n\nThe next afternoon I passed the house,--passed with the same close\nscrutiny; I rapped down my heels sharply, astonishing the silent street\nwith the clatter of my steps, a clatter that repeated itself in\nresponsive echoes, one after another; I looked at the window and the\ncurtain was raised again.\n\nThe plain truth is that behind the curtain I saw nothing at all; but by\naid of the imagination I seemed to discern a figure,--the figure, in\nfact, of a woman.\n\nThat day twice or thrice I fell into a muse over my drawing. And on\nother days I passed the house, and always when I was passing the curtain\nwould be raised again, remaining so till the sound of my steps was lost\nin the distance and I from afar had looked back at it for the last time.\n\nMy sketches were making but little progress. In that cloister of _San\nJuan de los Reyes_, in that cloister so mysterious and bathed in so\nprofound a melancholy,--seated on the broken capital of a column, my\nportfolio on my knees, my elbows on my portfolio, and my head between my\nhands,--to the music of water which flows there with an incessant\nmurmur, to the rustling of leaves under the evening wind in the wild,\nforsaken garden, what dreams did I not dream of that window and that\nwoman! I knew her; I knew her name and even the color of her eyes.\n\nI would see her crossing the wide and lonely courts of that most ancient\nhouse, rejoicing them with her presence as a sunbeam gilds a pile of\nruins. Again I would seem to see her in a garden of very lofty, very\nshadowy walls, among colossal, venerable trees, such as there ought to\nbe at the back of that sort of Gothic palace where she lived, gathering\nflowers and seating herself alone on a stone bench and there sighing\nwhile she plucked them leaf from leaf thinking on--who knows? Perchance\non me. Why say perchance? Assuredly on me. Oh, what dreams, what\nfollies, what poetry did that window awaken in my soul while I abode at\nToledo!\n\nBut my allotted time for sojourning in that city went by. One day, heavy\nof heart and pensive of mood, I shut up all my drawings in the\nportfolio, bade farewell to the world of fancy, and took a seat in the\ncoach for Madrid.\n\nBefore the highest of the Toledo towers had faded on the horizon, I\nthrust my head from the carriage window to see it once more, and\nremembered the street.\n\nI still held the portfolio under my arm, and on taking my seat again,\nwhile we rounded the hill which suddenly hid the city from my eyes, I\ndrew out my pencil and set down a date. It is the first of the three,\nand the one which I call the Date of the Window.\n\n\nII.\n\nAt the end of several months, I again had an opportunity to leave the\nCapital for three or four days. I dusted my portfolio, tucked it under\nmy arm, provided myself with a quire of paper, a half-dozen pencils and\na few napoleons and, deploring the fact that the railroad was not yet\nfinished, crowded myself into a public stage that I might journey in\nreverse order through the scenes of Tirso\u2019s famous comedy _From Toledo\nto Madrid_.\n\nOnce installed in the historic city, I devoted myself to visiting again\nthe spots which had most excited my interest on my former trip, and\ncertain others which as yet I knew only by name.\n\nThus I let slip by, in long, solitary rambles among the most ancient\nquarters of the town, the greater part of the time which I could spare\nfor my little artistic expedition, finding a veritable pleasure in\nlosing myself in that confused labyrinth of blind lanes, narrow streets,\ndark passages and steep, impracticable heights.\n\nOne afternoon, the last that I might at that time remain in Toledo,\nafter one of these long wanderings in unknown ways, I arrived--by what\nstreets I can scarcely tell--at a great deserted square, apparently\nforgotten by the very inhabitants of the city and hidden away, as it\nwere, in one of its most remote nooks.\n\nThe filth and the rubbish cast out in this square from time immemorial\nhad identified themselves, if I may say so, with the earth in such a\nmanner as to present the broken and mountainous aspect of a miniature\nSwitzerland. On the hillocks and in the valleys formed by these\nirregularities were growing at their own will wild mallows of colossal\nproportions, circles of giant nettles, creeping tangles of white\nmorning-glories, stretches of that nameless, common herb, small, fine\nand of a darkish green, and among these, swaying gently in the light\nbreath of the air, overtopping like kings all the other parasitic\nplants, the no less poetic than vulgar yellow mustard, true flower of\nwastes and ruins.\n\nScattered along the ground, some half buried, others almost hidden by\nthe tall weeds, might be seen an infinite number of fragments of\nthousands on thousands of diverse articles, broken and thrown out on\nthat spot in different epochs, where they were in process of forming\nstrata in which it would be easy to follow out a course of genealogical\nhistory.\n\nMoorish tiles enamelled in various colors, sections of marble and of\njasper columns, fragments of brick of a hundred varying kinds, great\nblocks covered with verdure and moss, pieces of wood already nearly\nturned to dust, remains of antique panelling, rags of cloth, strips of\nleather, and countless other objects, formless, nameless, were what at\nfirst sight appeared on the surface, even while the attention was caught\nand the eyes dazzled by glancing sparks of light sprinkled over the\ngreen like a handful of diamonds flung broadcast and which, on closer\nsurvey, proved to be nothing else than tiny bits of glass and of glazed\nearthenware,--pots, plates, pitchers,--that, flashing back the sunlight,\ncounterfeited a very heaven of microscopic, glittering stars.\n\nSuch was the flooring of that square, though actually paved in some\nplaces with small pebbles of various colors arranged in patterns, and in\nothers covered with great slabs of slate, but in the main, as we have\njust said, like a garden of parasitic plants or a waste and weedy field.\n\nNor were the buildings which outlined its irregular form less strange\nand worthy of study. On one side it was bounded by a line of dingy\nlittle houses, the roofs twinkling with chimneys, weathercocks and\noverhangs, the marble guardposts fastened to the corners with iron\nrings, the balconies low or narrow, the small windows set with\nflower-pots, and the hanging lantern surrounded by a wire network to\nprotect its smoky glass from the missiles of the street urchins.\n\nAnother boundary was constituted by a great, time-blackened wall full of\nchinks and crevices, from which, amid patches of moss, peeped out, with\nlittle bright eyes, the heads of various reptiles,--a wall exceedingly\nhigh, formed of bulky blocks sprinkled over with hollows for doors and\nbalconies that had been closed up with stone and mortar, and on one of\nwhose extremities joined, forming an angle with it, a wall of brick\nstripped of its plaster and full of rough holes, daubed at intervals\nwith streaks of red, green and yellow and crowned with a thatch of hay,\nin and out of which ran sprays of climbing plants.\n\nThis was no more, so to speak, than the side scenery of the strange\nstage-setting which, as I made my way into the square, suddenly\npresented itself to view, captivating my mind and holding it spell-bound\nfor a space, for the true culminating point of the panorama, the edifice\nwhich gave it its general tone, rose at the rear of the square, more\nwhimsical, more original, infinitely more beautiful in its artistic\ndisorder than all the buildings about.\n\n\u201cHere is what I have been wanting to find,\u201d I exclaimed on seeing it,\nand seating myself on a rough piece of marble, placing my portfolio on\nmy knees and sharpening a pencil, I made ready to sketch, though only in\noutline, its irregular and eccentric form that I might ever keep it in\nmemory.\n\nIf I could fasten on here with wafers the very slight and ill-drawn\nsketch of this building that I still keep, imperfect and impressionistic\nthough it is, it would save me a mountain of words, giving to my readers\na truer idea of it than all the descriptions imaginable.\n\nBut since this may not be, I will try to depict it as best I can, so\nthat the readers of these lines may form a remote conception if not of\nits infinite details, at least of its effect as a whole.\n\nImagine an Arab palace with horse-shoe portals, its walls adorned by\nlong rows of arches with hundreds of intercrossings, running over a\nstripe of brilliant tiles; here is seen the recess of an arched window,\ncut in two by a group of slender colonnettes and enclosed in a frame of\nexquisite, fanciful ornament; there rises a watch-tower with its light\nand airy turret, roofed with glazed tiles of green and yellow, its keen\ngolden arrow losing itself in the void; further on is descried the\ncupola that covers a chamber painted in gold and blue, or lofty\ngalleries closed with green Venetian blinds which on opening reveal\ngardens with walks of myrtle, groves of laurel, and high-jetting\nfountains. All is unique, all harmonious, though unsymmetrical; all\ngives one a glimpse of the luxury and the marvels of its interior; all\nlets one divine the character and the customs of its inmates.\n\nThe wealthy Arab who owned this edifice finally abandons it; the process\nof the years begins to disintegrate the walls, dim their colors and even\ncorrode their marbles. A king of Castile then chooses for his residence\nthat already crumbling palace, and at this point he breaks the front,\nopening an ogee and adorning it with a border of escutcheons through\nwhose midst is curled a garland of thistles and clover; yonder he\nraises a massive fortress-tower of hewn stone with narrow loopholes and\npointed battlements; further along he builds on a wing of lofty, gloomy\nrooms, where may be seen, in curious fellowship, stretches of shining\ntiles, dusky vaulting, or a solitary Arab window, or a horse-shoe arch,\nlight and elegant, giving entrance to a Gothic hall, austere and grand.\n\nBut there comes a day when the king, too, abandons this dwelling,\npassing it over to a community of nuns, and these in their turn remodel\nit, adding new features to the already strange physiognomy of the\nMoorish palace. They lattice the windows; between two Arab arches they\nset the symbol of their faith, carved in granite; where tamarinds and\nlaurels used to grow they plant sad and gloomy cypresses; and making use\nof some remnants of the old edifice, and building on top of others, they\nform the most picturesque and incongruous combinations conceivable.\n\nAbove the main portal of the church, where may be dimly seen, as if\nenveloped in the mystic twilight made by the shadows of their canopies,\na broadside of saints, angels and virgins at whose feet are\ntwisted--among acanthus leaves--stone serpents, monsters and dragons,\nrises a slender minaret filagreed over with Moorish work; close below\nthe loopholes of the battlemented walls, whose merlons are now broken,\nthey place a shrine with a sacred fresco; and they close up the great\nslits with thin partitions decorated with little squares like a\nchess-board; they put crosses on all the pinnacles, and finally they\nrear a spire full of bells which peal mournfully night and day calling\nto prayer,--bells which swing at the impulsion of an unseen hand, bells\nwhose far-off sound sometimes draws from the listener tears of\ninvoluntary grief.\n\nStill the years are passing and are bathing in a dull, mellow,\nnondescript hue the whole edifice, harmonizing its colors and sowing ivy\nin its crevices.\n\nWhite storks hang their nests on the tower-vane, martins build under the\neaves, swallows in the granite canopies, and the owls choose for their\nhaunt lofty holes left by fallen stones, whence on cloudy nights they\naffright superstitious old women and timid children with the phosphoric\ngleam of their round eyes and their shrill, uncanny hoots.\n\nOnly all these changes of fortune, only all these special circumstances\ncould have resulted in a building so individual, so full of contrasts,\nof poetry and of memories as the one which on that afternoon presented\nitself to my view and which to-day I have essayed, albeit in vain, to\ndescribe by words.\n\nI had drawn it in part on one of the leaves of my sketch-book. The sun\nwas scarcely gilding the highest spires of the city, the evening breeze\nwas beginning to caress my brow, when rapt in the ideas that suddenly\nhad assailed me on contemplating the silent remains of other eras more\npoetic than the material age in which we live, suffocating in its utter\nprose, I let my pencil slip from my fingers and gave over the drawing,\nleaning against the wall at my back and yielding myself up completely to\nthe visions of imagination. Of what was I thinking? I do not know that I\ncan tell. I clearly saw epoch succeeding epoch, walls falling and other\nwalls rising in their stead. I saw men or, rather, women giving place to\nother women, and the first and those who came after changing into dust\nand flying like dust upon the air, a puff of wind bearing away\nbeauty,--beauty which had been wont to call forth secret sighs,\nto engender passions, to be the source of ecstasies; then--what\nknow I?--all confused of thought, I saw many things jumbled\ntogether,--boudoirs of cunning work, with clouds of perfume and beds of\nflowers, strait and dreary cells with prayer-stool and crucifix, at the\nfoot of the crucifix an open book, and upon the book a skull; stern and\nstately halls, hung with tapestries and adorned with trophies of war;\nand many women passing and still repassing before my gaze, tall nuns\npale and thin, brown concubines with reddest lips and blackest eyes;\ngreat dames of faultless profile, high bearing and majestic gait.\n\nAll these things I saw; and many more of those which, though visioned,\ncannot be remembered; of those so immaterial that it is impossible to\nconfine them in the narrow compass of a word,--when suddenly I gave a\nbound upon my seat and, passing my hand over my eyes to convince myself\nthat I was not still dreaming, leaping up as if moved by a nerve-spring,\nI fastened my gaze on one of the lofty turrets of the convent. I had\nseen--there is no room for doubt--perfectly had I seen a hand of\ntranscendent whiteness, which, reaching out from one of the apertures of\nthose turrets mortared like chess-boards, had waved several times as if\ngreeting me with a mute and loving sign. And it was I whom it greeted;\nthere was no possibility of a mistake; I was alone, utterly alone in the\nsquare.\n\nIn vain I waited till night, nailed to that spot and without removing my\neyes for an instant from the turret; fruitlessly I often returned to\ntake up my watch again on the dark stone which had served me for seat\nthat afternoon when I saw appear the mysterious hand, already the object\nof my dreams by night and wildest fantasies by day. I beheld it\nnevermore.\n\nAnd finally came the hour when I must depart from Toledo, leaving there,\nas a useless and ridiculous burden, all the illusions which in its bosom\nhad been raised in my mind. I turned with a sigh to put my papers\ntogether in my portfolio; but before securing them there, I wrote\nanother date, the second, the one which I know as the Date of the Hand.\nAs I wrote it, I noticed for a moment the earlier, that of the Window,\nand could not but smile at my own folly.\n\n\nIII.\n\nFrom the time of the strange occurrence which I have just related until\nmy return to Toledo, there elapsed about a year, during which the memory\nof that afternoon was still present to my imagination, at first\nconstantly and in full detail, then less often, and at last so vaguely\nthat I even came to believe sometimes that I had been the sport of an\nillusive dream.\n\nNevertheless, scarcely had I arrived at the city which some with good\nreason call the Spanish Rome than this recollection beset me anew and\nunder its spell I set forth in absent-minded fashion to roam the\nstreets, without determined direction, with no preconceived purpose of\nmaking my way to any special point.\n\nThe day was gloomy with that gloom which invades all that one hears and\nsees and feels. The sky was the color of lead, and under its melancholy\nshadow the houses seemed older, quainter and duskier than ever. The wind\nmoaned along the tortuous, narrow streets, bearing upon its gusts, like\nthe lost notes of a mysterious symphony, unintelligible words, the peal\nof bells, and echoes of heavy, far-off blows. The damp, chill air froze\nthe soul with its icy breath.\n\nI wandered for several hours through the most remote and deserted parts\nof the city, rapt in a thousand confused imaginings; and, contrary to my\ncustom, with a gaze all vague and lost in space, nor could my attention\nbe aroused by any playful detail of architecture, by any monument of an\nunknown style, by any marvellous and hidden work of sculpture, by any\none, in short, of those rare features for whose minute examination I had\nbeen wont to pause at every step, at times when only artistic and\nantiquarian interests held sway in my mind.\n\nThe sky was continually growing darker; the wind was blowing more\nstrongly and more boisterously; and a fine sleet had begun to fall,\nvery keen and penetrating, when unwittingly,--for I was still ignorant\nof the way--and as if borne thither by an impulse which I could not\nresist, an impulse whose occult force had brought me to the spot whither\nmy thoughts were tending, I found myself in the lonely square which my\nreaders already know.\n\nOn finding myself in that place I sprang to clear consciousness from out\nthe depths of that lethargy in which I had been sunken, as if awakened\nfrom profound slumber by a violent shock.\n\nI looked about me. All was as I described it--nay, it was more dreary. I\nknow not whether this gloom was due to the darkness of the sky, the lack\nof verdure, or the state of my own spirit, but the truth is that between\nthe feeling with which I first contemplated that spot and this later\nimpression there was all the distance which lies between poetic\nmelancholy and personal bitterness.\n\nFor some moments I stood gazing at the sombre convent, now more sombre\nthan ever to my eyes, and I was already on the point of withdrawing when\nmy ears were wounded by the sound of a bell, a bell of broken, husky\nvoice, which was tolling slowly, while in vivid contrast it was\naccompanied by something like a little clapper-bell which suddenly began\nto revolve with the rapidity of a ringing so sharp and so incessant that\nit seemed to have been seized by an attack of vertigo.\n\nNothing was ever stranger than that edifice, whose black silhouette was\noutlined against the sky like that of a cliff bristling with thousands\nof freakish points, speaking with tongues of bronze through bells that\nseemed moved by the touch of invisible powers, the one weeping with\nsmothered sobs, the other laughing with shrill, wild outcry, like the\nlaughter of a madwoman.\n\nAt intervals and confused with the bewildering clamor of the bells, I\nseemed to hear, too, something like the indistinct notes of an organ and\nthe words of a sacred, solemn chant.\n\nI changed my intention; and instead of departing I approached the door\nof the church and asked one of the ragged beggars squatted on the stone\nsteps:\n\n\u201cWhat is going on here?\u201d\n\n\u201cA taking of the veil,\u201d the mendicant answered, interrupting the prayer\nwhich he was muttering between his teeth to resume it later, although\nnot until he had kissed the bit of copper that I dropped into his hand\nas I put my question.\n\nI had never been present at that ceremony, nor had I ever seen the\ninterior of the convent church. Both considerations impelled me to\nenter.\n\nThe church was high and dark; its aisles were defined by two rows of\npillars made up of slender columns gathered into sheaves and resting on\nbroad octagonal bases, while from their rich crowning of capitals sprang\nthe vaulting of the strong ogee arches. The High Altar was placed at the\nfurther end under a cupola of Renaissance style decorated with great\nshield-bearing angels, griffins, a profusion of foliage on the finials,\ncornices with gilded moldings and rosettes, and odd, elaborate frescoes.\nBordering the aisles might be seen a countless number of dusky chapels,\nin whose recesses were burning a few lamps like stars lost in a cloudy\nsky. Chapels there were of Arab architecture, Gothic, rococo; some\nenclosed by magnificent iron gratings; some by humble wooden rails; some\nsubmerged in shadow with an ancient marble tomb before the altar; some\nbrightly lighted, with an image clad in tinsel and surrounded by votive\nofferings of silver and wax, together with little bows of gay-colored\nribbon.\n\nThe fantastic light which illuminated all the church, whose structural\nconfusion and artistic disorder were entirely in keeping with the rest\nof the convent, tended to enhance its effect of mystery. From the lamps\nof silver and copper, suspended from the vaulting, from the\naltar-candles, from the narrow ogive windows and Moorish casements of\nthe walls, were shed rays of a thousand diverse hues,--white, stealing\nin from the street by little skylights in the cupola; red, spreading\ntheir glow from the great wax-candles before the shrines; green, blue,\nand a hundred other diverse tints making their way through the stained\nglass of the rose-windows. All these lustres, insufficient to flood that\nsacred place with adequate light, seemed at certain points to blend in\nstrife, while others stood out, clear patches of brightness, over\nagainst the veiled, dim depths of the chapels. Despite the solemnity of\nthe rite which was there taking place, but few of the faithful were in\nattendance. The ceremony had commenced some time ago and was now nearing\nits close. The priests who officiated at the High Altar were, at that\nmoment, enveloped in a cloud of azure incense which swayed slowly\nthrough the air, as they descended the carpeted steps to take their way\nto the choir where the nuns were heard intoning a psalm.\n\nI, too, moved toward that spot with the intent of peering through the\ndouble gratings which isolated the choir from the rest of the church. It\nseemed borne in upon me that I must know the face of that woman of whom\nI had seen only--and for one instant--the hand; and opening my eyes to\ntheir widest extent and dilating the pupils in the effort to give them\ngreater power and penetration, I strained my gaze on to the deepest\nrecesses of the choir. Fruitless attempt; across the interwoven irons,\nlittle or nothing could be seen. Some white and black phantoms moving\namidst a gloom against which fought in vain the inadequate radiance of a\nfew tall wax candles; a long line of lofty, crocketed sedilia, crowned\nwith canopies, beneath which might be divined, veiled by the dusk, the\nindistinct figures of nuns clad in long flowing robes; a crucifix\nilluminated by four candles and standing out against the dark\nbackground of the picture as those points of high light which, on the\ncanvases of Rembrandt, make the shadows more palpable; this was the\nutmost that could be discerned from the place where I stood.\n\nThe priests, covered with their gold-bordered copes, preceded by\nacolytes who bore a silver cross and two great candles, and followed by\nothers who swung censers that shed perfume all about, advancing through\nthe throng of the faithful who kissed their hands and the hems of their\nvestments, finally reached the choir-screen.\n\nUp to this moment I had not been able to distinguish, amid the other\nvague phantoms, that of the maiden who was about to consecrate herself\nto Christ.\n\nHave you never seen, in those last instants of twilight, a shred of mist\nrise from the waters of a river, the surface of a fen, the waves of the\nsea, or the deep heart of a mountain tarn,--a shred of mist that floats\nslowly in the void, and now looks like a woman moving, walking, trailing\nher gown behind her, now like a white veil fastening the tresses of an\ninvisible sylph, now a ghost which rises in the air hiding its yellow\nbones beneath a winding-sheet against which is still seen outlined its\nangular shape? Such was the hallucination I experienced in beholding\ndraw near the screen, as if detaching herself from the sombre depth of\nthe choir, that white, tall, most lightly moving form.\n\nThe face I could not see. She had placed herself exactly in front of the\ncandles which lit up the crucifix; and their gleam, making a halo about\nher head, had left the rest obscure, bathing her in a wavering shadow.\n\nProfound silence reigned; all eyes were fixed on her, and the final act\nof the ceremony began.\n\nThe abbess, murmuring some unintelligible words, words which in their\nturn the priests repeated with deep and hollow voice, caught from the\nvirgin\u2019s brow the enwreathing crown of blossoms and flung it far\naway.--Poor flowers! They were the last she was to wear, that woman,\nsister of the flowers even as all women are.\n\nThen the abbess despoiled her of her veil, and her fair tresses poured\nin a golden cascade down her back and shoulders, which they were\nsuffered to cover but an instant, for at once there began to be heard,\nin the midst of that profound silence reigning among the faithful, a\nsharp, metallic clickity-click which set the nerves twitching, and first\nthe magnificent waves of hair fell from the forehead they had shaded,\nand then those flowing locks that the fragrant air must have kissed so\nmany times slipped over her bosom and dropped upon the floor.\n\nAgain the abbess fell to murmuring the unintelligible words; the priest\nrepeated them; and once more all was silence in the church. Only from\ntime to time were heard, afar off, sounds like long-drawn, dreadful\nmoans. It was the wind complaining as it broke upon the edges of the\nbattlements and towers, and shuddering as it passed the colored panes of\nthe ogive windows.\n\nShe was motionless, motionless and pallid as a maiden of stone wrenched\nfrom the niche of a Gothic cloister.\n\nAnd they despoiled her of the jewels which covered her arms and throat,\nand finally they divested her of her wedding robe, that raiment which\nseemed to have been wrought that a lover might break its clasps with a\nhand trembling for bliss and passion.\n\nThe mystic Bridegroom was awaiting the bride. Where? Beyond the doors of\ndeath; lifting, undoubtedly, the stone of the sepulchre and calling her\nto enter, even as the timid bride crosses the threshold of the sanctuary\nof nuptial love, for she fell to the floor prostrate as a corpse. As if\nshe were clay, the nuns strewed her body with flowers, intoning a most\nmournful psalm; a murmur went up from amid the multitude, and the\npriests with their deep and hollow voices commenced the service for the\ndead, accompanied by those instruments that seem to weep, augmenting the\nunfathomable fear which the terrible words they pronounce inspire of\nthemselves.\n\n_De profundis clamavi a te!_ chanted the nuns from the depths of the\nchoir with plaintive, lamenting voices.\n\n_Dies irae, dies illa!_ responded the priests in thunderous, awful echo,\nand therewith the bells pealed slowly, tolling for the dead, and between\nthe peals the metal was heard to vibrate with a strange and dolorous\ndrone.\n\nI was touched; no, not touched--terrified. I believed that I was in\npresence of the supernatural, that I felt the heart of my own life torn\nfrom me, and that vacancy was closing in upon me; I felt that I had just\nlost something precious, as a father, a mother, or a cherished wife, and\nI suffered that immeasurable desolation which death leaves behind\nwheresoever it passes, a desolation nameless, indescribable, to be\ncomprehended only by those who have had it to bear.\n\nI was still rooted to that spot with wildly staring eyes, quaking from\nhead to foot and half beside myself, when the new nun rose from the\nground. The abbess robed her in the habit of the order, the sisters took\nlighted candles in their hands and, forming two long lines, led her in\nprocession back to the further side of the choir.\n\nThere, amid the shadows, I saw the sudden glint of a ray of light; the\ndoor of the cloister was opened. As she stepped beneath the lintel, the\nnun turned for the last time toward the altar. The brightness of all the\nlights suddenly shone upon her, and I could see her face. As I saw it, I\nhad to choke back a cry.\n\nI knew that woman; not that I had ever seen her, but I knew her from the\nvisions of my dreams; she was one of those beings whom the soul\nforetells or perchance remembers from another better world which, in\nour descent to this, some of us do not altogether forget.\n\nI took two steps forward; I longed to call to her--to cry out--I know\nnot what--giddiness assailed me; but at that instant the cloister door\nshut--forever. The silver bells rang blithely, the priests raised a\n_Hosanna_, clouds of incense swept through the air, the organ poured\nforth from a hundred metal mouths a torrent of thunderous harmony, and\nthe bells of the tower began to chime, swinging with a frightful\necstasy.\n\nThat mad and clamorous glee made my hair rise on my head. I looked about\nsearching for the parents, family, motherless children of that woman. I\nfound none.\n\n\u201cPerhaps she was alone in the world,\u201d I said, and could not repress a\ntear.\n\n\u201cGod grant thee in the cloister the happiness which He denied thee in\nthe world!\u201d simultaneously exclaimed an old woman by my side, and she\nsobbed and groaned, clutching the grating.\n\n\u201cDo you know her?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cThe poor dear! Indeed I knew her. I saw her born and I have nursed her\nin my arms.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why does she take the veil?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause she found herself alone in the world. Her father and mother\ndied of the cholera on one and the same day, a little more than a year\nago. Seeing her an orphan and unprotected, the dean gave her a dowry so\nthat she might enter the sisterhood; and now you see--what else was\nthere to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who was she?\u201d\n\n\u201cDaughter of the steward of the Count of C----, whom I served until his\ndeath.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere did he live?\u201d\n\nWhen I heard the name of the street, I could not repress an exclamation\nof surprise.\n\nA line of light, that line of light which is as swift as thought,\nrunning brightly through the obscurity and confusion of the mind,\nuniting experiences far removed from one another and marvellously\nbinding them together, connected my vague memories and I understood--or\nbelieved that I understood--all.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThis date, which has no name, I have not written anywhere,--nay; I bear\nit written there where only I may read it and whence it shall never be\nerased.\n\nOccasionally in recalling these events, even now in relating them here,\nI have asked myself:--\n\nSome day in the mysterious hour of twilight, when the breath of the\nspring zephyr, warm and laden with perfumes, penetrates even into the\nrecesses of the most retired dwellings, bearing there an airy touch of\nmemory, of the world, must not a woman, alone, lost in the dim shades of\na Gothic cloister, her cheek upon her hand, her elbow resting on the\nembrasure of an ogive window, have exhaled a sigh as the recollection of\nthese dates crossed her imagination?\n\nWho knows?\n\nOh! if she sighed, where might that sigh be?\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRIST OF THE SKULL\n\n\nThe King of Castile was going to the Moorish war and, in order to\ncontend with the enemies of the faith, he had sent a martial summons to\nall the flower of his nobility. The silent streets of Toledo now\nresounded night and day with the stirring sound of kettle-drums and\ntrumpets; and in the Moorish gateway of Visagra, or in that of Cambr\u00f3n,\nor in the narrow entrance to the ancient bridge of St. Martin, not an\nhour passed without one\u2019s hearing the hoarse cry of the sentinels\nproclaiming the arrival of some knight who, preceded by his seigniorial\nbanner and followed by horsemen and foot-soldiers, had come to join the\nmain body of the Castilian army.\n\nThe time which remained before taking the road to the frontier and\ncompleting the order of the royal hosts was spent in public\nentertainments, lavish feasts and brilliant tournaments, until at last,\non the evening before the day appointed by His Highness for the setting\nout of the army, a grand ball closed the festivities.\n\nOn the night of the ball, the royal palace presented a singular\nappearance. In the spacious courts might be seen, promiscuously mingled\naround huge bonfires, a motley multitude of pages, soldiers, crossbowmen\nand hangers-on, who, some grooming their chargers and polishing their\narms preparatory to combat, others bewailing with outcries and\nblasphemies the unforeseen turns of Fortune, personified for them in the\ncast of the dice, and others chorusing the refrain of a martial ballad\nwhich a minstrel was chanting to the accompaniment of a rude violin;\nothers still buying of a palmer cockle-shells, crosses and girdles\nhallowed by the touch of the sepulchre of Santiago, or greeting with\nwild outbursts of laughter the jokes of a clown, or practising on the\ntrumpets the battle-airs of the several seigniories, or telling old\nstories of chivalry and love adventures, or of miracles recently\nperformed,--all contributed their quota to an infernal,\nundistinguishable uproar impossible to describe in words.\n\nAbove that tumultuous ocean of war songs, noise of hammers smiting\nanvils, creaking of files that bit the steel, stamping of horses,\ninsolent voices, irrepressible laughter, disorderly shouts and\nintemperate reproaches, oaths and all manner of strange, discordant\nsounds, there floated at intervals like a breath of harmony the distant\nmusic of the ball.\n\nThis, which was taking place in the salons of the second story of the\npalace, offered in its turn a picture, if not so fantastic and\ncapricious, more dazzling and magnificent.\n\nThrough galleries of far extent which formed an intricate labyrinth of\nslender columns and ogees of fretted stone delicate as lace; through\ngreat halls hung with tapestries on which silk and gold had pictured\nwith a thousand diverse colors scenes of love, of the chase and of\nwar,--halls adorned with trophies of arms and escutcheons over which was\nshed a sea of sparkling light from innumerable lamps, suspended from the\nloftiest vaults, and from candelabras of bronze, silver and gold,\nfastened into the massive blocks of the walls; on all sides, wherever\nthe eyes turned, might be seen floating and drifting hither and thither\na cloud of beautiful ladies in rich, gold-embroidered garments, nets of\npearls imprisoning their tresses, necklaces of rubies blazing upon their\nbreasts, feather fans with ivory handles hanging from their wrists,\nveils of white laces caressing their cheeks; and joyous throngs of\ngallants with velvet sword-belts, brocaded jackets and silken trousers,\nmorocco buskins, full-sleeved mantelets with pointed\n\n[Illustration: THE VISAGRA GATE]\n\nhoods, poniards with ornamental hilts, and rapiers polished, thin and\nlight.\n\nBut in that bright and shining assemblage of youthful cavaliers and\nladies, whom their elders, seated in the high larch chairs which\nencircled the royal dais, with smiles of joy saw defiling by, there was\none woman who attracted attention for her incomparable loveliness, one\nwho had been hailed Queen of Beauty in all the tournaments and courts of\nlove of the period, one whose colors the most valiant knights had\nadopted as their emblem, one whose charms were the theme of the songs of\nthe troubadours most proficient in the _gay science_, one toward whom\nall eyes turned with wonder, for whom all hearts sighed in secret,\naround whom might be seen gathering with eagerness, like humble vassals\nin the train of their mistress, the most illustrious scions of the\nToledan nobility assembled at the ball that night.\n\nThose presumptive gallants who were continually in the retinue of the\nDo\u00f1a In\u00e9s de Tordesillas, for such was the name of this celebrated\nbeauty, were never discouraged in their suit despite her haughty and\ndisdainful character. One was emboldened by a smile which he thought he\ndetected on her lips; another, by a gracious look which he deemed he had\nsurprised in her eyes; another, by a flattering word, the slightest sign\nof preference, or a vague promise. Each in silence cherished the hope\nthat he would be her choice. Yet among them all there were two\nparticularly prominent for their assiduity and devotion, two who to all\nappearance, if not the acknowledged favorites of the beauty, might claim\nto be the farthest advanced upon the path to her heart. These two\nknights, equals in birth, valor and chivalric accomplishments, subjects\nof the same king and aspirants for the same lady, were Alonso de\nCarrillo and Lope de Sandoval.\n\nBoth were natives of Toledo; together they had first borne arms; and on\none and the same day, their eyes meeting those of Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s, both had\nconceived a hidden and ardent love for her, a love that for some time\ngrew in secrecy and silence, but at length came to an involuntary\nbetrayal of itself in their actions and conversation.\n\nAt the tournaments in the Zocodover, at the floral games of the court,\nwhenever opportunity was presented for rivalry in gallantry or wit, both\nknights had availed themselves of it with eagerness, desirous to win\ndistinction under the eyes of their lady; and that night, impelled\ndoubtless by the same passion, changing their helmets for plumes and\ntheir mail for brocade and silk, standing together by the seat where she\nrested a moment after a turn through the salons, they began to engage in\na brilliant contest of exquisite and ingenious phrases or keen and\ncovert epigrams.\n\nThe lesser stars of that sparkling constellation, forming a gilded\nsemicircle around the two gallants, laughed and cheered on the delicate\nstrife; and the fair lady, the prize of that word-tournament, approved\nwith a scarcely perceptible smile the flashes of wit, elegantly phrased\nor full of hidden meaning, whether they fell from the lips of her\nadorers like a light wave of perfume flattering to her vanity, or leapt\nforth like a sharp arrow seeking to pierce the opponent in his most\nvulnerable point, his self-love.\n\nAlready with each sally the courtly combat of wit and gallantry was\ngrowing fiercer; the phrases were still civil in form, but terse and\ndry, and in the speaking, accompanied though it was by a slight curving\nof the lips in semblance of a smile, unconcealable lightnings of the\neyes betrayed that repressed anger which raged in the breasts of the\nrivals.\n\nIt was a situation that could not be sustained. The lady, so perceiving,\nhad risen to make another tour of the salons, when an incident occurred\nthat broke down the barrier of formal courtesy which had hitherto\nrestrained the two enamoured youths. Perchance intentionally, perchance\nthrough carelessness, Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s had let fall upon her lap one of her\nperfumed gloves whose golden buttons she had amused herself in pulling\noff one by one during the conversation. As she rose, the glove slipped\nbetween the wide silken plaits of her dress and fell upon the carpet.\nSeeing it drop, all the knights who formed her brilliant retinue bent\neagerly to recover it, disputing with one another the honor of a slight\ninclination of her head as a reward of their gallantry.\n\nNoting the precipitation with which all stooped to pick up her glove, a\nhalf smile of satisfied vanity appeared on the lips of the haughty Do\u00f1a\nIn\u00e9s. With a gesture of general acknowledgment to the cavaliers who had\nshown such eagerness to serve her, the lady, with a lofty, arrogant mien\nand scarcely glancing in that direction, reached out her hand for the\nglove toward Lope and Alonso, the first to reach it. In fact, both\nyouths had seen the glove fall close to their feet, both had stooped\nwith equal haste to pick it up and, on rising, each held it seized by\none end. On seeing them immovable, looking silent defiance each upon the\nother, and both determined not to give up the glove which they had just\nraised from the floor, the lady uttered a light, involuntary cry,\nstifled by the murmur of the astonished spectators. The whole presented\na threatening scene, that there in the royal castle and in the presence\nof the king might be designated as a serious breach of courtesy.\n\nLope and Alonso, notwithstanding, remained motionless, mute, scanning\neach other from head to foot, showing no sign of the tempest in their\nsouls save by a slight nervous tremor which shivered through their limbs\nas if they had been attacked by a sudden fever.\n\nThe murmurs and exclamations were reaching a climax. The people began to\ngroup themselves around the principal actors in the scene. Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s,\neither bewildered or taking delight in prolonging the situation, was\nmoving to and fro as if seeking refuge or escape from the eyes of the\nthrong whose numbers were continually augmented. Catastrophe now seemed\ninevitable. The two young men had already exchanged a few words in an\nundertone, and each, while still with one hand holding the glove in a\nconvulsive grip, seemed instinctively to be seeking with the other the\ngolden hilt of his poniard, when the crowd of spectators respectfully\nopened and there appeared the king.\n\nHis brow was tranquil. There was neither indignation in his countenance\nnor anger in his bearing.\n\nHe surveyed the scene; one glance was sufficient to put him in command\nof the situation. With all the grace of the most accomplished page, he\ndrew the glove from the young knights\u2019 hands which, as though moved by a\nspring, opened without difficulty at the touch of their sovereign, and\nturning to Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s de Tordesillas, who, leaning on the arm of a\nduenna, seemed about to faint, said with a firm though controlled voice,\nas he presented the glove:\n\n\u201cTake it, _se\u00f1ora_, and be careful not to let it fall again, lest when\nyou recover it, you find it stained with blood.\u201d\n\nBy the time the king had finished speaking, Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s, we will not\nundertake to say whether overcome by emotion, or in order to retreat\nmore gracefully from the situation, had swooned in the arms of those\nabout her.\n\nAlonso and Lope, the former crushing in silence between his hands his\nvelvet cap whose plume trailed along the carpet, and the latter biting\nhis lips till the blood came, fixed each other with a stubborn, intense\nstare.\n\nA stare at that crisis was equivalent to a blow, a glove thrown in the\nface, a challenge to mortal combat.\n\n\nII.\n\nAt midnight, the king and queen retired to their chamber. The ball was\nat an end, and the inquisitive folk outside, who, forming groups and\ncircles in the vicinity of the palace, had been impatiently awaiting\nthis moment, ran to station themselves beside the steep road, up in the\nbalconies along the route, and in the central square of the city, known\nas the Zocodover.\n\nFor an hour or two there reigned, at these points and in the adjacent\nstreets, clamor, bustle, activity indescribable. Everywhere might be\nseen squires caracoling on their richly caparisoned steeds,\nmasters-at-arms with showy vestments full of shields and heraldic\ndevices, drummers dressed in gay colors, soldiers in shining armor,\npages in velvet cloaks and plumed hats, footmen who preceded luxurious\nchairs and litters covered with rich cloth. The great, blazing torches\nborne by the footmen cast a rosy glow upon the multitude, who, with\nwondering faces, open mouths and frightened eyes, saw with amazement all\nthe chief nobility of Castile passing by, surrounded on that occasion by\nfabulous splendor and pomp.\n\nThen, by degrees, the noise and excitement subsided, the stained glass\nin the lofty ogive windows of the palace ceased to shine, the last\ncavalcade passed through the close-packed throngs, the rabble in their\nturn began to disperse in all directions, disappearing among the shadows\nof the puzzling labyrinth formed by those dark, narrow, tortuous\nstreets, and now the deep silence of the night was broken only by the\nfar-off call of some sentinel, the footsteps of some lingerer whose\ncuriosity had left him to the last, the clang of bolts and bars in\nclosing gates, when on the summit of the stone stairway which leads to\nthe platform of the palace, there appeared a knight, who, after looking\non all sides as if seeking some one who should have been expecting him,\nslowly descended to the Cuesta del Alcazar, by which he took his way\ntoward the Zocodover.\n\nOn arriving at the square, he halted a moment and cast a searching\nglance around. The night was dark, not a star glistened in the sky, nor\nin all the square could a single light be seen; yet afar off, and in the\nsame direction in which he began to perceive a slight sound as of\napproaching footsteps, he believed he saw the figure of a man, without\ndoubt the same whom he had seemed to await with such impatience.\n\nThe knight who had just quitted the castle for the Zocodover was Alonso\nCarrillo, who, on account of the post of honor which he held near the\nperson of the king, had been kept on attendance in the royal chamber\nuntil that hour. The man coming to meet him out of the shadows of the\narcades which surround the square was Lope de Sandoval. When the two\nknights were face to face, they exchanged a few sentences in suppressed\nvoices.\n\n\u201cI thought you would be expecting me,\u201d said the one.\n\n\u201cI hoped that you would surmise as much,\u201d answered the other.\n\n\u201cWhere shall we go?\u201d\n\n\u201cWherever there can be found four handsbreadth of ground to turn around\nin and a ray to give us light.\u201d\n\nThis briefest of dialogues ended, the two young men plunged into one of\nthe narrow streets leading out from the Zocodover and vanished in the\ndarkness like those phantoms of the night, which, after terrifying for\nan instant the beholder, dissolve into atoms of mist and are lost in the\ndepth of the shadows.\n\nA long time they went on, traversing the streets of Toledo, seeking a\nsuitable place to end their quarrel, but the darkness of the night was\nso dense that the duel seemed impossible. Yet both wished to fight and\nto fight before the whitening of the east; for at dawn the royal hosts\nwere to go forth, and Alonso with them.\n\nSo they pressed on, threading at random deserted squares, dusky alleys,\nlong and gloomy passages, till at last they saw shining in the distance\na light, a light small and waning, about which the mist formed a circle\nof ghostly, glimmering lustre.\n\nThey had reached the Street of the Christ, and the radiance discernible\nat one end seemed to come from the small lantern which illuminated then\nand illuminates still the image that gives the street its name.\n\nOn seeing it, both let escape an exclamation of joy and, quickening\ntheir steps toward it, were not long in finding themselves near the\nshrine in which it burned.\n\nAn arched recess in the wall, in the depths of which might be seen the\nimage of the Redeemer, nailed to the cross, with a skull at his feet, a\nrude board covering for protection from the weather, and a small lantern\nhung by a cord, swaying with the wind and shedding a faint effulgence,\nconstituted the entire shrine. About it clung festoons of ivy which had\nsprung up among the dark and broken stones forming, as it were, a\ncurtain of verdure.\n\nThe cavaliers, after reverently saluting the image of Christ by removing\ntheir military caps and murmuring a short prayer, glanced over the\nground, threw off their mantles and, each perceiving the other to be\nready for the combat and both giving the signal by a slight motion of\nthe head, crossed swords. But scarcely had the blades touched when,\nbefore either of the combatants had been able to take a single step or\nstrike a blow, the light suddenly went out, leaving the street plunged\nin utter darkness. As if moved by the same thought, the two antagonists,\non finding themselves surrounded by that instantaneous gloom, took a\nstep backward, lowered the points of their swords to the ground and\nraised their eyes to the lantern, whose light, a moment before\nextinguished, began to shine anew at the very instant the duel was\nsuspended.\n\n\u201cIt must have been some passing gust that lowered the flame,\u201d exclaimed\nCarrillo, placing himself again on guard, and giving warning to Lope,\nwho seemed preoccupied.\n\nLope took a step forward to recover the lost ground, extended his arm\nand the blades touched once more, but at their touching the light again\nwent out of itself, remaining thus until the swords separated.\n\n\u201cIn truth, but this is strange!\u201d murmured Lope, gazing at the lantern\nwhich had begun spontaneously to burn again. The gleam, slowly wavering\nwith the wind, spread a tremulous, wonderful radiance over the yellow\nskull placed at the feet of Christ.\n\n\u201cBah!\u201d said Alonso, \u201cit must be because the holy woman who has charge of\nthe lamp cheats the devotees and scants the oil, so that the light,\nalmost out, brightens and then darkens again in its dying agony.\u201d\n\nThus speaking, the impetuous youth placed himself once more in attitude\nof defence. His opponent did the same; but this time, not only were they\nenveloped in a thick and impenetrable gloom, but simultaneously there\nfell upon their ears the deep echo of a mysterious voice like those long\nsighs of the south-west wind which seems to complain and articulate\nwords as it wanders imprisoned in the crooked, narrow and dim streets of\nToledo.\n\nWhat was uttered by that fearful and superhuman voice never could be\nlearned; but on hearing it, both youths were seized with such profound\nterror that their swords dropped from their hands, their hair stood on\nend, and over their bodies, shaken by an involuntary tremor, and down\ntheir pallid and distorted brows a cold sweat like that of death began\nto flow.\n\nThe light, for the third time quenched, for the third time shone again\nand dispelled the dark.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed Lope, beholding him who was now his opponent, in other\ndays his best friend, astounded like himself, like himself pale and\nmotionless, \u201cGod does not mean to permit this combat, for it is a\nfratricidal contest; because a duel between us is an offence to heaven\nin whose sight we have sworn a hundred times eternal friendship.\u201d And\nsaying this he threw himself into the arms of Alonso, who clasped him in\nhis own with unspeakable strength and fervor.\n\n\nIII.\n\nSome moments passed during which both youths indulged in every\nendearment of friendship and love. Alonso spoke first and, in accents\ntouched by the scene which we have just related, exclaimed, addressing\nhis comrade:\n\n\u201cLope, I know that you love Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s; perhaps not as much as I, but you\nlove her. Since a duel between us is impossible, let us agree to place\nour fate in her hands. Let us go and seek her, let her decide with free\nchoice which of us shall be the happy one, which the wretched. Her\ndecision shall be respected by both, and he who does not gain her favor\nshall to-morrow go forth with the King of Toledo and shall seek the\ncomfort of forgetfulness in the excitement of war.\u201d\n\n\u201cSince you wish it, so let it be,\u201d replied Lope.\n\nAnd arm in arm the two friends took their way toward the cathedral\nbeneath whose shadow, in a palace of which there are now no remains,\ndwelt Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s de Tordesillas.\n\nIt was early dawn, and as some of the kindred of Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s, among them\nher brothers, were to march the coming day with the royal army, it was\nnot impossible that early in the morning they could gain admittance to\nher palace.\n\nInspired by this hope they arrived, at last, at the base of the Gothic\ntower of the church, but on reaching that point a peculiar noise\nattracted their attention and, stopping in one of the angles, concealed\namong the shadows of the lofty buttresses that support the walls, they\nsaw, to their amazement, a man emerging from a window upon the balcony\nof their lady\u2019s apartments in the palace. He lightly descended to the\nground by the help of a rope and, finally, a white figure, Do\u00f1a In\u00e9s\nundoubtedly, appeared upon the balcony and, leaning over the fretted\nparapet, exchanged tender phrases of farewell with her mysterious lover.\n\nThe first motion of the two youths was to place their hands on their\nsword-hilts, but checking themselves, as though struck by a common\nthought, they turned to look on one another, each discerning on the\nother\u2019s face a look of astonishment so ludicrous that both broke forth\ninto loud laughter, laughter which, rolling on from echo to echo in the\nsilence of the night, resounded through the square even to the palace.\n\nHearing it, the white figure vanished from the balcony, a noise of\nslamming doors was heard, and then silence resumed her reign.\n\nOn the following day, the queen, seated on a most sumptuous dais, saw\ndefile past her the hosts who were marching to the war against the\nMoors. At her side were the principal ladies of Toledo. Among them was\nDo\u00f1a In\u00e9s de Tordesillas on whom this day, as ever, all eyes were bent.\nBut it seemed to her that they wore a different expression from that to\nwhich she was accustomed. She would have said that in all the curious\nlooks cast upon her lurked a mocking smile.\n\nThis discovery could not but disquiet her, remembering, as she did, the\nnoisy laughter which, the night before, she had thought she heard at a\ndistance in one of the angles of the square, while she was closing her\nbalcony and bidding adieu to her lover; but when she saw among the ranks\nof the army marching below the dais, sparks of fire glancing from their\nbrilliant armor, and a cloud of dust enveloping them, the two reunited\nbanners of the houses of Carrillo and Sandoval; when she saw the\nsignificant smile which the two former rivals, on saluting the queen,\ndirected toward herself, she comprehended all. The blush of shame\nreddened her face and tears of chagrin glistened in her eyes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE DOE\n\n\nIn a small town of Aragon, about the end of the thirteenth century or a\nlittle later, there lived retired in his seigniorial castle a renowned\nknight named Don Dion\u00eds, who, having served his king in the war against\nthe infidels, was then taking his ease, giving himself up to the merry\nexercise of hunting, after the wearisome hardships of war.\n\nIt chanced once to this cavalier, engaged in his favorite diversion,\naccompanied by his daughter whose singular beauty, of the blond type\nextraordinary in Spain, had won her the name of White Lily, that as the\nincreasing heat of the day began to tell upon them, absorbed in pursuing\na quarry in the mountainous part of his estate, he took for his\nresting-place during the hours of the siesta a glen through which ran a\nrivulet leaping from rock to rock with a soft and pleasant sound.\n\nIt might have been a matter of some two hours that Don Dion\u00eds had\nlingered in that delectable retreat, reclining on the delicate grass in\nthe shade of a black-poplar grove, talking affably with his huntsmen\nabout the incidents of the day, while they related one to another more\nor less curious adventures that had befallen them in their hunting\nexperiences, when along the top of the highest ridge and between\nalternating murmurs of the wind which stirred the leaves on the trees,\nhe began to perceive, each time more near, the sound of a little bell\nlike that of the leader of a flock.\n\nIn truth, it was really that, for very soon after the first hearing of\nthe bell, there came leaping over the thick undergrowth of lavender and\nthyme, descending to the opposite bank of the rivulet, nearly a hundred\nlambs white as snow, and behind them appeared their shepherd with his\npointed hood drawn over his brows to protect him from the vertical rays\nof the sun and with his shoulder-bag swung from the end of a stick.\n\n\u201cSpeaking of remarkable adventures,\u201d exclaimed on seeing him one of the\nhuntsmen of Don Dion\u00eds, addressing his lord, \u201chere is Esteban, the\nshepherd-lad, who has been now for some time more of a fool than God\nmade him, which was fool enough. He can give us an amusing half-hour by\nrelating the cause of his continual frights.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what is it that happens to this poor devil?\u201d exclaimed Don Dion\u00eds\nwith an air of piqued curiosity.\n\n\u201cA mere trifle,\u201d continued the huntsman in a jesting tone. \u201cThe case is\nthis--that without having been born on Good Friday, or bearing a\nbirthmark of the cross, or, so far as one can infer from his regular\nChristian habits, binding himself to the Devil, he finds himself, not\nknowing why or whence, endowed with the most marvellous faculty that any\nman ever possessed, unless it be Solomon, who, they say, understood even\nthe language of birds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd with what does this remarkable faculty have to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has to do,\u201d pursued the huntsman, \u201cas he affirms, and he swears and\nforswears it by all that is most sacred, with a conspiracy among the\ndeer which course through these mountains not to leave him in peace, the\ndrollest thing about it being that on more than one occasion he has\nsurprised them in the act of contriving the pranks they were going to\nplay on him and after those tricks had been carried through he has\noverheard the noisy bursts of laughter with which they applaud them.\u201d\n\nWhile the huntsman was thus speaking, Constanza, as the beautiful\ndaughter of Don Dion\u00eds was named, had drawn near the group of sportsmen\nand, as she appeared curious to hear the strange experience of Esteban,\none of them ran on to the place where the young shepherd was watering\nhis flock and brought him into the presence of his lord, who, to dispel\nthe perturbation and evident embarrassment of the poor peasant, hastened\nto greet him by name, accompanying the salutation with a benevolent\nsmile.\n\nEsteban was a boy of nineteen or twenty years, robust in build, with a\nsmall head sunken between his shoulders, little blue eyes, a wavering,\nstupid glance like that of albinos, a flat nose, thick, half open lips,\nlow forehead, complexion fair but tanned by the sun, and hair which fell\npartly over his eyes and partly around his face, in rough red locks like\nthe mane of a sorrel nag.\n\nSuch, more or less exactly, was Esteban in point of physique. In respect\nto his character, it could be asserted without fear of denial on his own\npart or on that of any one who knew him, that he was an entirely honest,\nsimple-hearted lad, though, like a true peasant, a little suspicious and\nmalicious.\n\nAs soon as the shepherd had recovered from his confusion, Don Dion\u00eds\nagain addressed him and, in the most serious tone in the world, feigning\nan extraordinary interest in learning the details of the event to which\nhis huntsman had referred, put to him a multitude of questions to which\nEsteban began to reply evasively, as if desirous of escaping any\ndiscussion of the subject.\n\nConstrained, nevertheless, by the demands of his lord and the entreaties\nof Constanza, who seemed most curious and eager that the shepherd should\nrelate his astounding adventures, he decided to talk freely, but not\nwithout casting a distrustful glance about him as though fearing to be\noverheard by others than those present, and scratching his head three\nor four times in the effort to connect his recollections or find the\nthread of his narrative, before at last he thus began:\n\n\u201cThe fact is, my lord, that as a priest of Tarazona to whom, not long\nago, I went for help in my troubles, told me, wits don\u2019t serve against\nthe Devil, but mum! finger on lip, many good prayers to Saint\nBartholomew--who, none better, knows his knaveries--and let him have his\nsport; for God, who is just, and sits up thereon high, will see that all\ncomes right in the end.\n\n\u201cResolved on this course I had decided never again to say a word to any\none about it,--no, not for anything; but I will do it to-day to satisfy\nyour curiosity, and in good sooth, if, after all, the Devil calls me to\naccount and goes to troubling me in punishment for my indiscretion, I\ncarry the Holy Gospels sewed inside my sheepskin coat, and with their\nhelp, I think that, as at other times, I may make telling use of a\ncudgel.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, come!\u201d exclaimed Don Dion\u00eds, out of patience with the digressions\nof the shepherd, which it seemed would never end, \u201clet the whys and\nwherefores go, and come directly to the subject.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am coming to it,\u201d calmly replied Esteban, and after calling together,\nby dint of a shout and a whistle, the lambs of which he had not lost\nsight and which were now beginning to scatter over the mountain-side, he\nscratched his head again and proceeded thus:\n\n\u201cOn the one hand, your own continual hunting trips, and on the other,\nthe persistency of those trespassers who, what with snare and what with\ncrossbow, hardly leave a deer alive in twenty days\u2019 journey round about,\nhad, a little time ago, so thinned out the game in these mountains that\nyou could not find a stag in them, not though you would give one of your\neyes.\n\n\u201cI was speaking of this in the town, seated in the porch of the church,\nwhere after mass on Sunday I was in the habit of joining some laborers\nwho till the soil in Verat\u00f3n, when some of them said to me:\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, man, I don\u2019t know why it is you fail to run across them, since,\nas for us, we can give you our word that we don\u2019t once go down to the\nploughed land without coming upon their tracks, and it is only three or\nfour days since, without going further back, a herd, which, to judge by\ntheir hoof-prints, must have numbered more than twenty, cut down before\nits time a crop of wheat belonging to the care-taker of the Virgen del\nRomeral.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And in what direction did the track lead?\u2019 I asked the laborers, with\na mind to see if I could fall in with the herd.\n\n\u201c\u2018Toward the Lavender Glen,\u2019 they replied.\n\n\u201cThis information did not enter one ear to go out at the other; that\nvery night I posted myself among the poplars. During all its hours I\nkept hearing here and there, far off as well as near by, the trumpeting\nof the deer as they called one to another, and from time to time I felt\nthe boughs stirring behind me; but however sharply I looked, the truth\nis, I could distinguish nothing.\n\n\u201cNevertheless, at break of day, when I took the lambs to water, at the\nbank of the stream, about two throws of the sling from the place where\nwe now are, and in so dense a shade of poplars that not even at mid-day\nis it pierced by a ray of sunshine, I found fresh deer-tracks, broken\nbranches, the stream a little roiled and, what is more peculiar, among\nthe deer-tracks the short prints of tiny feet no larger than the half of\nthe palm of my hand, without any exaggeration.\u201d\n\nOn saying this, the boy, instinctively seeming to seek a point of\ncomparison, directed his glance to the foot of Constanza, which peeped\nfrom beneath her petticoat shod in a dainty sandal of yellow morocco,\nbut as the eyes of Don Dion\u00eds and of some of the huntsmen who were\nabout him followed Esteban\u2019s, the beautiful girl hastened to conceal it,\nexclaiming in the most natural voice in the world:\n\n\u201cOh, no! unluckily mine are not so tiny, for feet of this size are found\nonly among the fairies of whom the troubadours sing.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I did not give up with this,\u201d continued the shepherd, when\nConstanza had finished. \u201cAnother time, having concealed myself in\nanother hiding-place by which, undoubtedly, the deer would have to pass\nin going to the glen, at just about midnight sleep overcame me for a\nlittle, although not so much but that I opened my eyes at the very\nmoment when I perceived the branches were stirring around me. I opened\nmy eyes, as I have said; I rose with the utmost caution and, listening\nintently to the confused murmur, which every moment sounded nearer, I\nheard in the gusts of wind something like cries and strange songs,\nbursts of laughter, and three or four distinct voices which talked\ntogether with a chatter and gay confusion like that of the young girls\nat the village when, laughing and jesting on the way, they return in\ngroups from the fountain with their water-jars on their heads.\n\n\u201cAs I gathered from the nearness of the voices and close-by crackle of\ntwigs which broke noisily in giving way to that throng of merry maids,\nthey were just about to come out of the thicket on to a little platform\nformed by a jut of the mountain there where I was hid when, right at my\nback, as near or nearer than I am to you, I heard a new voice, fresh,\nfine and vibrant, which said--believe it, _se\u00f1ores_, it is as true as\nthat I have to die--it said, clearly and distinctly, these very words:\n\n \u201c\u2018Hither, hither, comrades dear!\n That dolt of an Esteban is here!\u2019\u201d\n\nOn reaching this point in the shepherd\u2019s story, the bystanders could no\nlonger repress the merriment which for many minutes had been dancing in\ntheir eyes and, giving free rein to their mirth, they broke into\nclamorous laughter. Among the first to begin to laugh, and the last to\nleave off, were Don Dion\u00eds, who, notwithstanding his air of dignity,\ncould not but take part in the general hilarity, and his daughter\nConstanza, who, every time she looked at Esteban, all in suspense and\nembarrassment as he was, fell to laughing again like mad till the tears\nsprang from her eyes.\n\nThe shepherd-lad, for his part, although without heeding the effect his\nstory had produced, seemed disturbed and restless, and while the great\nfolk laughed to their hearts\u2019 content at his simple tale, he turned his\nface from one side to the other with visible signs of fear and as if\ntrying to descry something beyond the intertwined trunks of the trees.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, Esteban, what is the matter?\u201d asked one of the huntsmen,\nnoting the growing disquietude of the poor boy, who now was fixing his\nfrightened eyes on the laughing daughter of Don Dion\u00eds, and again gazing\nall around him with an expression of astonishment and dull dismay:\n\n\u201cA very strange thing is happening to me,\u201d exclaimed Esteban. \u201cWhen,\nafter hearing the words which I have just repeated, I quickly sat\nupright to surprise the person who had spoken them, a doe white as snow\nleaped from the very copse in which I was hidden and, taking a few\nprodigious bounds over the tops of the evergreen oaks and mastic trees,\nsped away, followed by a herd of deer of the natural color; and these,\nlike the white one who was guiding them, did not utter the cries of deer\nin flight, but laughed with great peals of laughter, whose echo, I could\nswear, is sounding in my ears at this moment.\u201d\n\n\u201cBah, bah, Esteban!\u201d exclaimed Don Dion\u00eds, with a jesting air, \u201cfollow\nthe counsels of the priest of Tarazona; do not talk of your adventures\nwith the joke-loving deer, lest the Devil bring it to pass that in the\nend you lose the little sense you have, and since now you are provided\nwith the gospels and know the prayer of Saint Bartholomew, return to\nyour lambs which are beginning to scatter through the glen. If the evil\nspirits tease you again, you know the remedy--_Pater Noster_ and a big\nstick.\u201d\n\nThe shepherd, after putting away in his pouch a half loaf of white bread\nand a piece of boar\u2019s meat, and in his stomach a mighty draught of wine,\nwhich, by order of his lord, one of the grooms gave him, took leave of\nDon Dion\u00eds and his daughter and had scarcely gone four steps when he\nbegan whirling his sling, casting stones from it to gather the lambs\ntogether.\n\nAs, by this time, Don Dion\u00eds observed that, what with one diversion and\nanother, the hours of heat were now passed and the light afternoon\nbreeze was beginning to stir the leaves of the poplars and to freshen\nthe fields, he gave orders to his retinue to make ready the horses which\nwere grazing loose in the grove hard by; and when everything was\nprepared, he signalled to some to slip the leashes, and to others to\nblow the horns and, sallying forth in a troop from the poplar-grove,\ntook up the interrupted chase.\n\n\nII.\n\nAmong the huntsmen of Don Dion\u00eds was one named Garc\u00e9s, the son of an old\nservitor of the house and therefore held in high regard by the family.\n\nGarc\u00e9s was of about the age of Constanza, and from early boyhood had\nbeen accustomed to anticipate the least of her wishes and to divine and\ngratify the lightest of her whims.\n\nHe amused himself in his moments of leisure in sharpening with his own\nhand the pointed arrows of her ivory crossbow; he broke in the colts for\nher mounts; he trained her favorite hounds in the arts of the chase and\ntamed her falcons for which he bought at the fairs of Castile red hoods\nembroidered with gold.\n\nBut as for the other huntsmen, the pages and the common folk in the\nservice of Don Dion\u00eds, the delicate attentions of Garc\u00e9s and the marks\nof esteem with which his superiors distinguished him had caused them to\nhold him in a sort of general dislike, even to the point of saying, in\ntheir envy, that all his assiduous efforts to anticipate the caprices of\nhis mistress revealed the character of a flatterer and a sycophant. Yet\nthere were not wanting those who, more keen-sighted or malicious than\nthe rest, believed that they detected in the young retainer\u2019s devotion\nsigns of an ill-dissembled passion.\n\nIf this were really so, the secret love of Garc\u00e9s had more than abundant\nexcuse in the incomparable charms of Constanza. He must needs have had a\nbreast of stone, and a heart of ice, who could remain unmoved day after\nday at the side of that woman, peerless in her beauty and her bewitching\ngraces.\n\nThe Lily of the Moncayo they called her for twenty leagues around, and\nwell she merited this soubriquet, for she was so exquisite, so white and\nso delicately flushed that it would seem that God had made her, like the\nlilies, of snow and gold.\n\nNevertheless, among the neighboring gentry it was whispered that the\nbeautiful Lady of Verat\u00f3n was not so pure of blood as she was fair, and\nthat despite her bright tresses and her alabaster complexion, she had\nhad a gipsy mother. How much truth there was in these rumors no one\ncould say, for, in fact, Don Dion\u00eds had in his youth led an adventurous\nlife, and after fighting long under the banner of the King of Aragon,\nfrom whom he received among other rewards the fief of the Moncayo, had\ngone to Palestine, where he wandered for some years, finally returning\nto establish himself in his castle of Verat\u00f3n with a little daughter\nborn, doubtless, on foreign soil. The only person who could have told\nanything about the mysterious origin of Constanza, having attended Don\nDion\u00eds in his travels abroad, was the father of Garc\u00e9s, and he had died\nsome time since without saying a single word on the subject, not even to\nhis own son who, at various times and with manifestations of great\ninterest, had questioned him.\n\nThe temperament of Constanza, with its swift alternations from reserve\nand melancholy to mirth and glee; the singular vividness of her\nimagination; her wild moods; her extraordinary ways; even the\npeculiarity of having eyes and eyebrows black as night while her\ncomplexion was white and rosy and her hair as bright as gold, had\ncontributed to furnish food for the gossip of the countryside; and even\nGarc\u00e9s himself, who knew her so intimately, had come to the conclusion\nthat his liege lady was something apart and did not resemble the rest of\nwomankind.\n\nPresent, as the other huntsmen were, at the narration of Esteban, Garc\u00e9s\nwas perhaps the only one who listened with genuine curiosity to the\ndetails of the shepherd\u2019s incredible adventure; and though he could not\nhelp smiling when the lad repeated the words of the white doe, no sooner\nhad he left the grove in which they had taken their siesta, than he\nbegan to revolve in his mind the most ridiculous fancies.\n\n\u201cWithout doubt this tale of the talking of the deer is a sheer delusion\nof Esteban\u2019s, who is a perfect simpleton,\u201d the young huntsman said to\nhimself as, mounted on a powerful sorrel, he followed step by step the\npalfrey of Constanza, who seemed also somewhat preoccupied and was so\nsilent and so withdrawn from the group of hunters as scarcely to take\nany part in the sport. \u201cYet who can say that in the story which this\npoor fool tells there may not be a grain of truth?\u201d thought on the young\nretainer. \u201cWe have seen stranger things in the world, and a white doe\nmay indeed exist, since if we can credit the folk-songs, Saint Hubert,\nthe patron of huntsmen, had one. Oh, if I could take a white doe alive\nfor an offering to my lady!\u201d\n\nThus thinking and dreaming, Garc\u00e9s passed the afternoon; and when the\nsun began to descend behind the neighboring hills, and Don Dion\u00eds gave\nthe order to his retinue for the return to the castle, he slipped away\nfrom the company unnoticed and went in search of the shepherd through\nthe densest and most entangled coverts of the mountain.\n\nNight had almost completely closed in when Don Dion\u00eds arrived at the\ngates of his castle. Immediately there was placed before him a frugal\ncollation and he sat down with his daughter at the table.\n\n\u201cAnd Garc\u00e9s, where is he?\u201d asked Constanza, noticing that her huntsman\nwas not there to serve her as usual.\n\n\u201cWe do not know,\u201d the other attendants hastened to reply. \u201cHe\ndisappeared from among us near the glen and we have not seen him since.\u201d\n\nAt that instant Garc\u00e9s arrived, all breathless, his forehead still\ncovered with perspiration, but with the most happy and satisfied\nexpression imaginable.\n\n\u201cPardon me, my lady,\u201d he exclaimed, addressing Constanza, \u201cpardon me if\nI have been wanting a moment in my duty, but there whence I came at my\nhorse\u2019s best speed, there, as here, I was busied only in your service.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn my service?\u201d repeated Constanza. \u201cI do not understand what you\nmean.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, my lady, in your service,\u201d repeated the youth, \u201cfor I have\nascertained that the white doe really does exist. Besides Esteban, it is\nvouched for by various other shepherds, who swear they have seen it more\nthan once; and with their aid I hope in God and in my patron Saint\nHubert to bring it, living or dead, within three days to you at the\ncastle.\u201d\n\n\u201cBah! Bah!\u201d exclaimed Constanza with a jesting air, while the derisive\nlaughter, more or less dissimulated, of the bystanders chorused her\nwords. \u201cHave done with midnight hunts and with white does. Bear in mind\nthat the Devil loves to tempt the simple; and if you persist in\nfollowing at his heels, he will make you a laughing-stock like poor\nEsteban.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lady,\u201d interrupted Garc\u00e9s with a broken voice, concealing as far as\npossible the anger which the merry scoffs of his companions stirred in\nhim, \u201cI have never yet had to do with the Devil and consequently I am\nnot acquainted with his practices; but, for myself, I swear to you that,\ndo all he can, he will not make me an object of laughter, for that is a\nprivilege I know how to tolerate in yourself alone.\u201d\n\nConstanza saw the effect which her mocking had produced on the enamoured\nyouth, but desiring to test his patience to the uttermost, she continued\nin the same tone:\n\n\u201cAnd what if, on aiming at the doe, she salutes you with another laugh\nlike that which Esteban heard, or flings it into your very face, and\nyou, hearing those supernatural peals of merriment, let fall your bow\nfrom your hands, and before you recover from the fright, the white doe\nhas vanished swifter than lightning--what then?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, as for that!\u201d exclaimed Garc\u00e9s, \u201cbe sure that if I can speed a\nshaft before she is out of bowshot, although she play me more tricks\nthan a juggler; although she speak to me, not in the language of the\ncountry, but in Latin like the Abbot of Munilla, she will not get off\nwithout an arrow-head in her body.\u201d\n\nAt this stage in the conversation, Don Dion\u00eds joined in with a forced\ngravity through which might be detected the entire irony of his words,\nand began to give the now persecuted boy the most original counsels in\nthe world, in case he should suddenly meet with the demon changed into\na white doe.\n\nAt each new suggestion of her father, Constanza fixed her eyes on the\ndistressed Garc\u00e9s, and broke into extravagant laughter, while his\nfellow-servitors encouraged the jesting with glances of intelligence and\nill-disguised delight.\n\nOnly with the close of the supper ceased this scene, in which the\ncredulity of the young hunter was, so to speak, the theme on which the\ngeneral mirth played variations, so that when the cloth was removed and\nDon Dion\u00eds and Constanza had withdrawn to their apartments, and all the\ninmates of the castle had gone to rest, Garc\u00e9s remained for a long time\nirresolute, debating whether, notwithstanding the jeers of his liege\nlord and lady, he would stand firm to his purpose, or absolutely abandon\nthe enterprise.\n\n\u201cWhat the devil,\u201d he exclaimed, rousing himself from the state of\nuncertainty into which he had fallen. \u201cGreater harm than that which has\novertaken me cannot come to pass and if, on the other hand, what Esteban\nhas told us is true, oh, then, how sweet will be the taste of my\ntriumph!\u201d\n\nThus speaking, he fitted a shaft to his crossbow--not without having\nmade the sign of the cross on the point of the arrow--and swinging it\nover his shoulder, he directed his steps toward the postern gate of the\ncastle to take the mountain path.\n\nWhen Garc\u00e9s reached the glen and the point where, according to the\ninstructions of Esteban, he was to lie in wait for the appearance of the\ndeer, the moon was slowly rising behind the neighboring mountains.\n\nLike a good hunter, well-practised in his craft, he spent a considerable\ntime, before selecting a suitable place for an ambush, in going to and\nfro, scanning the byways and paths thereabouts, the grouping of the\ntrees, the irregularities of the ground, the curves of the river and the\ndepth of its waters.\n\nAt last, after completing this minute examination of the locality, he\nhid himself upon a sloping bank near some black poplars whose high and\ninterlacing tops cast a dark shadow, and at whose feet grew a clump of\nmastic shrubs high enough to conceal a man lying prone on the ground.\n\nThe river, which, from the mossy rocks where it rose, came following the\nwindings of the rugged fief of the Moncayo to enter the glen by a\ncascade, thence went gliding on, bathing the roots of the willows that\nshaded its bank, or playing with a murmurous ripple among the stones\nrolled down from the mountain, until it fell into a pool very near the\npoint which served the hunter for a hiding-place.\n\nThe poplars, whose silvered leaves the wind stirred with the sweetest\nrustle, the willows which, leaning over the limpid current, bedewed in\nit the tips of their pale branches, and the crowded groups of evergreen\noaks about whose trunks honeysuckles and blue morning-glories clambered\nand twined, formed a thick wall of foliage around this quiet river-pool.\n\nThe wind, stirring the leafy curtains of living green which spread round\nabout their floating shadow, let penetrate at intervals a stealthy ray\nof light that gleamed like a flash of silver over the surface of the\nmotionless, deep waters.\n\nHidden among the bushes, his ear attent to the slightest sound, and his\ngaze fixed upon the spot where, according to his calculations, the deer\nshould come, Garc\u00e9s waited a long time in vain.\n\nEverything about him remained buried in a deep calm.\n\nLittle by little, and it might well be that the lateness of the\nhour--for it was past midnight--began to weigh upon his lids--might well\nbe that far-off murmurs of the water, the penetrating scent of the wild\nflowers and the caresses of the wind affected his senses with the soft\ndrowsiness in which all nature seemed to be steeped--the enamoured boy,\nwho until now had been occupied in revolving in his mind the most\nalluring fancies, began to find that his ideas took shape more slowly\nand his thoughts drifted into vague and indecisive forms.\n\nAfter lingering a little in this dim border-land between waking and\nsleeping, at last he closed his eyes, let his crossbow slip from his\nhands, and sank into a profound slumber.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt must have been for two or three hours now that the young hunter had\nbeen snoring at his ease, enjoying to the full one of the serenest\ndreams of his life, when suddenly he opened his eyes, with a stare, and\nhalf raised himself to a sitting posture, full yet of that stupor with\nwhich one wakes suddenly from profound sleep.\n\nIn the breathings of the wind and blended with the light noises of the\nnight, he thought he detected a strange hum of delicate voices, sweet\nand mysterious, which were talking with one another, laughing or\nsinging, each in its own individual strain, making a twitter as\nclamorous and confused as that of the birds awakening at the first ray\nof the sun amid the leaves of a poplar grove.\n\nThis extraordinary sound was heard for an instant only, and then all was\nstill again.\n\n\u201cWithout doubt, I was dreaming of the absurdities of which the shepherd\ntold us,\u201d exclaimed Garc\u00e9s, rubbing his eyes in all tranquillity, and\nfirmly persuaded that what he had thought he heard was no more than that\nvague impression of slumber which, on awaking, lingers in the\nimagination, as the closing cadence of a melody dwells in the ear after\nthe last trembling note has ceased. And overcome by the unconquerable\nlanguor weighing down his limbs, he was about to lay his head again upon\nthe turf, when he heard anew the distant echo of those mystic voices,\nwhich to the accompaniment of the soft stir of the air, the water and\nthe leaves were singing thus:\n\nCHORUS.\n\n \u201cThe archer who watched on the top of the tower has laid his heavy\n head down on the wall.\n The stealthy hunter who was expecting to surprise the deer has been\n surprised by sleep.\n The shepherd who awaited the day, consulting the stars, sleeps now,\n and will sleep till dawn.\n Queen of the water-sprites, follow our steps.\n Come to swing in the branches of the willows over the surface of\n the water.\n \u201cCome to intoxicate thyself with the perfume of the violets which\n open at dusk.\n \u201cCome to enjoy the night, which is the day of the spirits.\u201d\n\nWhile the sweet notes of that delicious music floated on the air, Garc\u00e9s\nremained motionless. After it had melted away, with much caution he\nslightly parted the branches and, not without experiencing a certain\nshock, saw come into sight the deer, which, moving in a confused group\nand sometimes bounding over the bushes with incredible lightness,\nstopping as though listening for others, frolicking together, now hiding\nin the thicket, now sallying out again into the path, were descending\nthe mountain in the direction of the river-pool.\n\nIn advance of her companions, more agile, more graceful, more sportive,\nmore joyous than all of them, leaping, running, pausing and running\nagain so lightly that she seemed not to touch the ground with her feet,\nwent the white doe, whose wonderful color stood out like a fantastic\nlight against the dark background of the trees.\n\nAlthough the young man was inclined to see in his surroundings something\nof the supernatural and miraculous, the fact of the case was that, apart\nfrom the momentary hallucination which disturbed his senses for an\ninstant, suggesting to him music, murmurs and words, there was nothing\neither in the form of the deer, nor in their movements, nor in their\nshort cries with which they seemed to call one to another, that ought\nnot to be entirely familiar to a huntsman experienced in this sort of\nnight expeditions.\n\nIn proportion as he put away the first impression, Garc\u00e9s began to take\nthe practical view of the situation and, smiling inwardly at his\ncredulity and fright, from that instant was intent only on determining,\nin view of the route they were following, the point where the deer would\ntake the water.\n\nHaving made his calculation, he gripped his crossbow between his teeth\nand, twisting along like a snake behind the mastic shrubs, located\nhimself about forty paces from his former situation. Once ensconced in\nhis new ambush, he waited long enough for the deer to be within the\nriver, that his aim might be the surer. Scarcely had he begun to hear\nthat peculiar sound which is produced by the violent disturbance of\nwater, when Garc\u00e9s commenced to lift himself little by little, with the\ngreatest precaution, resting first on the tips of his fingers, and\nafterwards on one knee.\n\nErect at last, and assuring himself by touch that his weapon was ready,\nhe took a step forward, craned his neck above the shrubs to command a\nview of the pool and aimed the shaft, but at the very moment when he\nstrained his eyes, together with the cord, in search of the victim whom\nhe must wound, there escaped from his lips a faint, involuntary cry of\namazement.\n\nThe moon, which had been slowly climbing up the broad horizon, was\nmotionless, and hung as if suspended in the height of heaven. Her clear\nradiance flooded the forest, shimmered on the unquiet surface of the\nriver, and caused objects to be seen as through an azure gauze.\n\nThe deer had disappeared.\n\nIn their place, Garc\u00e9s, filled with consternation and almost with\nterror, saw a throng of most beautiful women, some of whom were\nsportively entering the water, while others were just freeing themselves\nfrom the light garments which as yet concealed from the covetous view\nthe treasure of their forms.\n\nIn those thin, brief dreams of dawn, rich in joyous and luxurious\nimages,--dreams as diaphanous and celestial as the light which then\nbegins to shine through the white bed-curtains, never had the\nimagination of twenty years sketched with fanciful coloring a scene\nequal to that which now presented itself to the eyes of the astonished\nGarc\u00e9s.\n\nHaving now cast off their robes and their veils of a thousand colors\nwhich, suspended from the trees or thrown carelessly down on the carpet\nof turf, stood out against the dim background, the maidens ran hither\nand thither through the grove, forming picturesque groups, going in and\nout of the water and splashing it in glistening sparks over the flowers\nof the margin, like a little shower of dewdrops.\n\nHere, one of them, white as the fleece of a lamb, lifted her fair head\namong the green floating leaves of an aquatic plant of which she seemed\nthe half-opened blossom whose flexible stem, one might imagine, could be\nseen to tremble beneath the endless gleaming circles of the waves.\n\nAnother, with her hair loose on her shoulders, swung from the branch of\na willow over the river, and her little rose-colored feet made a ray of\nsilvery light as they grazed the smooth surface. While some remained\ncouched on the bank, with their blue eyes drowsy, breathing voluptuously\nthe perfume of the flowers and shivering slightly at the touch of the\nfresh breeze, others were dancing in a giddy round, interlacing their\nhands capriciously, letting their heads droop back with delicious\nabandon, and striking the ground with their feet in harmonious cadence.\n\nIt was impossible to follow them in their agile movements, impossible to\ntake in with a glance the infinite details of the picture they formed,\nsome running, some gambolling and chasing one another with merry\nlaughter in and out the labyrinth of trees; others skimming the water\nswanlike and cutting the current with uplifted breast; others, diving\ninto the depths where they remained long before rising to the surface,\nbringing one of those wonderful flowers that spring unseen in the bed of\nthe deep waters.\n\nThe gaze of the astonished hunter wandered spellbound from one side to\nanother, without knowing where to fix itself, until he believed he saw,\nseated under swaying boughs which seemed to serve her as a canopy and\nsurrounded by a group of women, each more beautiful than the rest, who\nwere aiding her in freeing herself from her delicate vestments, the\nobject of his secret worship, the daughter of the noble Don Dion\u00eds, the\nincomparable Constanza.\n\nPassing from one surprise to another, the enamoured youth dared not\ncredit the testimony of his senses, and thought he was under the\ninfluence of a fascinating, delusive dream.\n\nStill, he struggled in vain to convince himself that all he had seen was\nthe effect of disordered imagination, for the longer and more\nattentively he looked, the more convinced he became that this woman was\nConstanza.\n\nHe could not doubt; hers were those dusky eyes shaded by the long lashes\nthat scarcely sufficed to soften the brilliancy of their glance; hers\nthat wealth of shining hair, which, after crowning her brow, fell over\nher white bosom and soft shoulders like a cascade of gold; hers, too,\nthat graceful neck which supported her languid head, lightly drooping\nlike a flower weary with its weight of dewdrops; and that fair figure of\nwhich, perchance, he had dreamed, and those hands like clusters of\njasmine, and those tiny feet, comparable only to two morsels of snow\nwhich the sun has not been able to melt and which in the morning lie\nwhite on the greensward.\n\nAt the moment when Constanza emerged from the little thicket, all her\nbeauty unveiled to her lover\u2019s eyes, her companions, beginning anew to\nsing, carolled these words to the sweetest of melodies.\n\nCHORUS.\n\n \u201cGenii of the air, dwelling in the luminous ether, enveloped in\n raiment of silver mist--come!\n \u201cInvisible sylphs, leave the cups of the half-opened lilies and\n come in your mother-of-pearl chariots drawn through the air\n by harnessed butterflies.\n \u201cNymphs of the fountains, forsake your mossy beds and fall upon\n us in little, diamond showers.\n \u201cEmerald beetles, fiery glow-worms, sable butterflies, come!\n \u201cAnd come, all ye spirits of night, come humming like a swarm of\n lustrous, golden insects.\n \u201cCome, for now the moon, protector of mysteries, sparkles in the\n fulness of splendor.\n \u201cCome, for the moment of marvellous transformation is at hand.\n \u201cCome, for those who love you, await you with impatience.\u201d\n\nGarc\u00e9s, who remained motionless, felt on hearing those mysterious songs\nthe asp of jealousy stinging his heart, and yielding to an impulse\nstronger than his will, bent on breaking once for all the spell that was\nfascinating his senses, thrust apart with a tremulous, convulsive hand\nthe boughs which concealed him, and with a single bound gained the\nriver-bank. The charm was broken, everything vanished like a vapor and,\nlooking about him, he neither saw nor heard more than the noisy\nconfusion with which the timid deer, surprised at the height of their\nnocturnal gambols, were fleeing in fright from his presence, hither and\nthither, one clearing the thickets with a bound, another gaining at full\nspeed the mountain path.\n\n\u201cOh, well did I say that all these things were only delusions of the\nDevil,\u201d exclaimed the hunter, \u201cbut this time, by good luck, he\nblundered, leaving the chief prize in my hands.\u201d\n\nAnd so, in fact, it was. The white doe, trying to escape through the\ngrove, had rushed into the labyrinth of its trees and, entangled in a\nnetwork of honeysuckles, was striving in vain to free herself. Garc\u00e9s\naimed his shaft, but at the very instant in which he was going to wound\nher, the doe turned toward the hunter and arrested his action with a\ncry, saying in a voice clear and sharp: \u201cGarc\u00e9s, what wouldst thou do?\u201d\nThe young man hesitated and, after a moment\u2019s doubt, let his bow fall to\nthe ground, aghast at the mere idea of having been in danger of harming\nhis beloved. A loud, mocking laugh roused him finally from his stupor.\nThe white doe had taken advantage of those brief instants to extricate\nherself and to flee swift as a flash of lightning, laughing at the trick\nplayed on the hunter.\n\n\u201cAh, damned offspring of Satan!\u201d he shouted in a terrible voice,\ncatching up his bow with unspeakable swiftness, \u201ctoo soon hast thou sung\nthy victory; too soon hast thou thought thyself beyond my reach.\u201d And so\nsaying, he sped the arrow, that went hissing on its way and was lost in\nthe darkness of the wood, from whose depths there simultaneously came a\nshriek followed by choking groans.\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d exclaimed Garc\u00e9s on hearing those sobs of anguish. \u201cMy God! if\nit should be true!\u201d And beside himself, hardly aware of what he did, he\nran like a madman in the direction in which he had shot the arrow, the\nsame direction from which sounded the groans. He reached the place at\nlast, but on arriving there, his hair stood erect with horror, the words\nthrobbed vainly in his throat and he had to clutch the trunk of a tree\nto save himself from falling to the ground.\n\nConstanza, wounded by his hand, was dying there before his eyes,\nwrithing in her own blood, among the sharp brambles of the mountain.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PASSION ROSE\n\n\nOne summer afternoon, in a garden of Toledo, this curious tale was\nrelated to me by a young girl as good as she was pretty.\n\nWhile explaining to me the mystery of its especial structure, she kissed\nthe leaves and pistils which she was plucking one by one from the flower\nthat gives to this legend its name.\n\nIf I could tell it with the gentle charm and the appealing simplicity\nwhich it had upon her lips, the history of the unhappy Sara would move\nyou as it moved me.\n\nBut since this cannot be, I here set down what of the tradition I can at\nthis instant recall.\n\n\nI.\n\nIn one of the most obscure and crooked lanes of the Imperial City,\nwedged in and almost hidden between the high Moorish tower of an old\nVisigothic church and the gloomy walls, sculptured with armorial\nbearings, of a family mansion, there was many years ago a tumbledown\ndwelling-house dark and miserable as its owner, a Jew named Daniel Levi.\n\nThis Jew, like all his race, was spiteful and vindictive, but for deceit\nand hypocrisy he had no match.\n\nThe possessor, according to popular report, of an immense fortune, he\nmight nevertheless be seen all day long huddled up in the shadowy\ndoorway of his home, making and repairing chains, old belts and broken\ntrappings of all sorts, in which he carried on a thriving business with\nthe riff-raff of\n\n[Illustration: A MOORISH WINDOW]\n\nthe Zocodover, the hucksters of the Postigo and the poor squires.\n\nThough an implacable hater of Christians and of everything pertaining to\nthem, he never passed a cavalier of note or an eminent canon without\ndoffing, not only once, but ten times over, the dingy little cap which\ncovered his bald, yellow head, nor did he receive in his wretched shop\none of his regular customers without bending low in the most humble\nsalutations accompanied by flattering smiles.\n\nThe smile of Daniel had come to be proverbial in all Toledo, and his\nmeekness, proof against the most vexatious pranks, mocks and cat-calls\nof his neighbors, knew no limit.\n\nIn vain the boys, to tease him, stoned his poor old house; in vain the\nlittle pages and even the men-at-arms of the neighboring castle tried to\nprovoke him by insulting nicknames, or the devout old women of the\nparish crossed themselves when passing his door as if they saw the very\nLucifer in person. Daniel smiled eternally with a strange, indescribable\nsmile. His thin, sunken lips twitched under the shadow of his nose,\nwhich was enormous and hooked like the beak of an eagle, and although\nfrom his eyes, small, green, round and almost hidden by the heavy brows,\nthere gleamed a spark of ill-suppressed anger, he went on imperturbably\nbeating with his little iron hammer upon the anvil where he repaired the\nthousand rusty and seemingly useless trifles which constituted his stock\nin trade.\n\nOver the door of the Jew\u2019s humble dwelling and within a casing of\nbright-colored tiles there opened an Arabic window left over from the\noriginal building of the Toledan Moors. Around the fretted frame of the\nwindow and climbing over the slender marble colonettes that divided it\ninto two equal apertures there arose from the interior of the house one\nof those climbing plants which, green and full of sap and of exuberant\ngrowth, spread themselves over the blackened walls of ruins.\n\nIn the part of the house that received an uncertain light through the\nnarrow spaces of the casement, the only opening in the time-stained,\nweather-worn wall, lived Sara, the beloved daughter of Daniel.\n\nWhen the neighbors, passing the shop of the Hebrew, chanced to see Sara\nthrough the lattice of her Moorish window and Daniel crouched over his\nanvil, they would exclaim aloud in admiration of the charms of the\nbeautiful Jewess: \u201cIt seems impossible that such an ugly old trunk\nshould have put forth so beautiful a branch!\u201d\n\nFor, in truth, Sara was a miracle of beauty. In the pupils of her great\neyes, shadowed by the cloudy arch of their black lashes, gleamed a point\nof light like a star in a darkened sky. Her glowing lips seemed to have\nbeen cut from a carmine weft by the invisible hands of a fairy. Her\ncomplexion was pale and transparent as the alabaster of a sepulchral\nstatue. She was scarcely sixteen years of age and yet there seemed\nengraven on her countenance the sweet seriousness of precocious\nintelligence, and there arose from her bosom and escaped from her mouth\nthose sighs which reveal the vague awakening of passion.\n\nThe most prominent Jews of the city, captivated by her marvellous\nbeauty, had sought her in marriage, but the Hebrew maiden, untouched by\nthe homage of her admirers and the counsels of her father, who urged her\nto choose a companion before she should be left alone in the world, held\nherself aloof in a deep reserve, giving no other reason for her strange\nconduct than the caprice of wishing to retain her freedom. At last, one\nof her adorers, tired of suffering Sara\u2019s repulses and suspecting that\nher perpetual sadness was a certain sign that her heart hid some\nimportant secret, approached Daniel and said to him:\n\n\u201cDo you know, Daniel, that among our brothers there is complaint of your\ndaughter?\u201d\n\nThe Jew raised his eyes for an instant from his anvil, stopped his\neternal hammering and, without showing the least emotion, asked his\nquestioner:\n\n\u201cAnd what do they say of her?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey say,\u201d continued his interlocutor, \u201cthey say--what do I know?--many\nthings; among them, that your daughter is in love with a Christian.\u201d At\nthis, the despised suitor waited to see what effect his words had had\nupon Daniel.\n\nDaniel raised his eyes once more, looked at him fixedly a moment without\nspeaking and, lowering his gaze again to resume his interrupted work,\nexclaimed:\n\n\u201cAnd who says this is not slander?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne who has seen them more than once in this very street talking\ntogether while you were absent at our Rabbinical service,\u201d insisted the\nyoung Hebrew, wondering that his mere suspicions, much more his positive\nstatements, should have made so little impression on the mind of Daniel.\n\nThe Jew, without giving up his work, his gaze fixed upon the anvil where\nhe was now busying himself, his little hammer laid aside, in brightening\nthe metal clasp of a sword guard with a small file, began to speak in a\nlow, broken voice as if his lips were repeating mechanically the\nthoughts that struggled through his mind:\n\n\u201cHe! He! He!\u201d he chuckled, laughing in a strange, diabolical way. \u201cSo a\nChristian dog thinks he can snatch from me my Sara, the pride of our\npeople, the staff on which my old age leans! And do you believe he will\ndo it? He! He!\u201d he continued, always talking to himself and always\nlaughing, while his file, biting the metal with its teeth of steel,\ngrated with an ever-increasing force. \u201cHe! He! \u2018Poor Daniel,\u2019 my friends\nwill say, \u2018is in his dotage. What right has this decrepit old fellow,\nalready at death\u2019s door, to a daughter so young and so beautiful, if he\ndoesn\u2019t know how to guard her from the covetous eyes of our enemies?\u2019\nHe! He! He! Do you think perchance that Daniel sleeps? Do you think,\nperadventure, that if my daughter has a lover--and that might well\nbe--and this lover is a Christian and tries to win her heart and wins\nit--all which is possible--and plans to flee with her--which also is\neasy--and flees, for instance, to-morrow morning,--which falls within\nhuman probability,--do you think that Daniel will suffer his treasure to\nbe thus snatched away? Do you think he will not know how to avenge\nhimself?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d exclaimed the youth, interrupting him, \u201cdid you then know it\nbefore?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Daniel, rising and giving him a slap on the shoulder, \u201cI\nknow more than you, who know nothing, and would know nothing had not the\nhour come for telling all. Adieu! Bid our brethren assemble as soon as\npossible. To-night, in an hour or two, I will be with them. Adieu!\u201d\n\nAnd saying this, Daniel gently pushed his interlocutor out into the\nstreet, gathered up his tools very slowly, and began to fasten with\ndouble bolts and bars the door of his little shop.\n\nThe noise made by the door as it closed on its creaking hinges prevented\nthe departing youth from hearing the sound of the window lattice, which\nat the same time fell suddenly as if the Jewess were just withdrawing\nfrom the embrasure.\n\n\nII.\n\nIt was the night of Good Friday, and the people of Toledo, after having\nattended the service of the Tenebrae in their magnificent cathedral, had\njust retired to rest, or, gathered at their firesides, were relating\nlegends like that of the Christ of the Light, a statue which, stolen by\nJews, left a trail of blood causing the discovery of the criminals, or\nthe story of the Child Martyr, upon whom the implacable enemies of our\nfaith repeated the cruel Passion of Jesus. In the city there reigned a\nprofound silence, broken at intervals, now by the distant cries of the\nnight-watchman, at that epoch accustomed to keep guard about the\nAlc\u00e1zar, and again by the sighing of the wind which was whirling the\nweather-cocks of the towers or sighing through the tortuous windings of\nthe streets. At this dead hour the master of a little boat that, moored\nto a post, lay swaying near the mills which seem like natural\nincrustations at the foot of the rocks bathed by the Tagus and above\nwhich the city is seated, saw approaching the shore, descending with\ndifficulty one of the narrow paths which lead down from the height of\nthe walls to the river, a person whom he seemed to await with\nimpatience.\n\n\u201cIt is she,\u201d the boatman muttered between his teeth. \u201cIt would seem that\nthis night all that accursed race of Jews is bent on mischief. Where the\ndevil will they hold their tryst with Satan that they all come to my\nboat when the bridge is so near? No, they are bound on no honest errand\nwhen they take such pains to avoid a sudden meeting with the soldiers of\nSan Servando,--but, after all, they give me the chance to earn good\nmoney and--every man for himself--it is no business of mine.\u201d\n\nSaying this, the worthy ferryman, seating himself in his boat, adjusted\nthe oars, and when Sara, for it was no other than she for whom he had\nbeen waiting, had leaped into the little craft, he cast off the rope\nthat held it and began to row toward the opposite shore.\n\n\u201cHow many have crossed to-night?\u201d asked Sara of the boatman, when they\nhad scarcely pulled away from the mills, as though referring to\nsomething of which they had just been speaking.\n\n\u201cI could not count them,\u201d he replied, \u201ca swarm. It looks as though\nto-night will be the last of their gatherings.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you know what they have in mind and for what purpose they leave\nthe city at this hour?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know, but it is likely that they are expecting some one who\nought to arrive to-night. I cannot tell why they are lying in wait for\nhim, but I suspect for no good end.\u201d\n\nAfter this brief dialogue Sara remained for some moments plunged in deep\nsilence as if trying to collect her thoughts. \u201cBeyond a doubt,\u201d she\nreflected, \u201cmy father has discovered our love and is preparing some\nterrible vengeance. I must know where they go, what they do, and what\nthey are plotting. A moment of hesitation might be death to him.\u201d\n\nWhile Sara sprang to her feet and, as if to thrust away the horrible\ndoubts that distracted her, passed her hand over her forehead which\nanguish had covered with an icy sweat, the boat touched the opposite\nshore.\n\n\u201cFriend,\u201d exclaimed the beautiful Jewess, tossing some coins to the\nferryman and pointing to a narrow, crooked road that wound up among the\nrocks, \u201cis that the way they take?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is, and when they come to the Moor\u2019s Head they turn to the left.\nThen the Devil and they know where they go next,\u201d replied the boatman.\n\nSara set out in the direction he had indicated. For some moments he saw\nher appear and disappear alternately in that dusky labyrinth of dim,\nsteep rocks. When she had reached the summit called the Moor\u2019s Head, her\ndark silhouette was outlined for an instant against the azure background\nof the sky and then was lost amid the shades of night.\n\n\nIII.\n\nOn the path where to-day stands the picturesque hermitage of the Virgin\nof the Valley, and about two arrow flights from the summit known by the\nToledan populace as the Moor\u2019s Head, there existed at that period the\nruins of a Byzantine church of date anterior to the Arab conquest.\n\nIn the porch, outlined by rough blocks of marble scattered over the\nground, were growing brambles and other parasitical plants, among which\nlay, half concealed--here, the shattered capital of a column, there, a\nsquare-hewn stone rudely sculptured with interlacing leaves, horrible or\ngrotesque monsters and formless human figures. Of the temple there\nremained standing only the side walls and some broken ivy-grown arches.\n\nSara, who seemed to be guided by a supernatural instinct, on arriving at\nthe point the boatman had indicated, hesitated a little, uncertain which\nway to take; but, finally, with a firm and resolute step, directed her\ncourse toward the abandoned ruins of the church.\n\nIn truth, her instinct had not been at fault; Daniel, who was no longer\nsmiling, no longer the feeble and humble old man, but rather, fury\nflashing from his little round eyes, seemed inspired by the spirit of\nVengeance, was in the midst of a throng of Jews eager, like himself, to\nwreak their thirsty hate on one of the enemies of their religion. He\nseemed to multiply himself, giving orders to some, urging others forward\nin the work, making, with a hideous solicitude, all the necessary\npreparations for the accomplishment of the frightful deed which he had\nbeen meditating, day in, day out, while, impassive, he hammered the\nanvil in his den at Toledo.\n\nSara, who, favored by the darkness, had succeeded in reaching the porch\nof the church, had to make a supreme effort to suppress a cry of horror\nas her glance penetrated its interior. In the ruddy glow of a blaze\nwhich threw the shadow of that infernal group on the walls of the\nchurch, she thought she saw that some were making efforts to raise a\nheavy cross, while others wove a crown of briers, or sharpened on a\nstone the points of enormous nails. A fearful thought crossed her mind.\nShe remembered that her race had been accused more than once of\nmysterious crimes. She recalled vaguely the terrifying story of the\nCrucified Child which she had hitherto believed a gross calumny invented\nby the populace for the taunting and reproaching of the Hebrews.\n\nBut now there was no longer room for doubt. There, before her eyes, were\nthose awful instruments of martyrdom, and the ferocious executioners\nonly awaited their victim.\n\nSara, filled with holy indignation, overflowing with noble wrath and\ninspired by that unquenchable faith in the true God whom her lover had\nrevealed to her, could not control herself at sight of that spectacle,\nand, breaking through the tangled undergrowth that concealed her,\nsuddenly appeared on the threshold of the temple.\n\nOn beholding her the Jews raised a cry of amazement, and Daniel, taking\na step toward his daughter with threatening aspect, hoarsely asked her:\n\u201cWhat seekest thou here, unhappy one?\u201d\n\n\u201cI come to cast in your faces,\u201d said Sara, in a clear, unfaltering\nvoice, \u201call the shame of your infamous work and I come to tell you that\nin vain you await the victim for the sacrifice, unless you mean to\nquench in me your thirst for blood, for the Christian you are expecting\nwill not come, because I have warned him of your plot.\u201d\n\n\u201cSara!\u201d exclaimed the Jew, roaring with anger, \u201cSara, this is not true;\nthou canst not have been so treacherous to us as to reveal our\nmysterious rites. If it is true that thou hast revealed them, thou art\nno longer my daughter.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I am not thy daughter. I have found another Father, a father all\nlove for his children, a Father whom you Jews nailed to an ignominious\ncross and who died upon it to redeem us, opening to us for an eternity\nthe doors of heaven. No, I am no longer thy daughter, for I am a\nChristian, and I am ashamed of my origin.\u201d\n\nOn hearing these words, pronounced with that strong fortitude which\nheaven puts only into the mouth of martyrs, Daniel, blind with rage,\nrushed upon the beautiful Hebrew girl and, throwing her to the ground,\ndragged her by the hair, as though he were possessed by an infernal\nspirit, to the foot of the cross which seemed to open its bare arms to\nreceive her.\n\n\u201cHere I deliver her up to you,\u201d he exclaimed to those who stood around.\n\u201cDeal justice to this shameless one, who has sold her honor, her\nreligion and her brethren.\u201d\n\n\nIV.\n\nOn the day following, when the cathedral bells were pealing the Gloria\nand the worthy citizens of Toledo were amusing themselves by shooting\nfrom crossbows at Judases of straw, just as is done to-day in some of\nour villages, Daniel opened the door of his shop, according to his\ncustom and, with that everlasting smile on his lips, commenced to salute\nthe passers-by, beating ceaselessly on his anvil with his little iron\nhammer; but the lattices of Sara\u2019s Moorish window were unopened, nor was\nthe beautiful Jewess ever seen again reclining at her casement of\ncolored tiles.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThey say that some years afterward a shepherd brought to the archbishop\na flower till then unknown, in which were represented all the\ninstruments of the Saviour\u2019s martyrdom--a flower strange and mysterious,\nwhich had grown, a climbing vine, over the crumbling walls of the ruined\nchurch.\n\nPenetrating into that precinct and seeking to discover the origin of\nthis marvel, there was found, they add, the skeleton of a woman and,\nburied with her, those instruments of the Passion which characterize the\nflower.\n\nThe skeleton, although no one could ascertain whose it might be, was\npreserved many years with special veneration in the hermitage of _San\nPedro el Verde_, and the flower, now common, is called the Passion\nRose.\n\n\n\n\nBELIEVE IN GOD\n\n_A Proven\u00e7al Ballad._\n\n\u201c_I was the true Teobaldo de Montagut, Baron of Fortcastell. Lord or\nserf, noble or commoner, thou, whosoever thou mayst be, who pausest an\ninstant beside my sepulchre, believe in God, as I have believed, and\npray for me._\u201d\n\n\nYe gallant Knights Errant, who, lance in rest, vizor closed, mounted on\npowerful charger, ride the world over with no more patrimony than your\nillustrious name and your good sword, seeking honor and glory in the\nprofession of arms,--if on crossing the rugged valley of Montagut you\nhave been overtaken by night and storm and have found a refuge in the\nruins of the monastery still to be seen in its bosom, hearken to me!\n\nYe Shepherds, who follow with slow step your herds that go grazing far\nand wide over the hills and plains, if on leading them to the border of\nthe transparent rivulet which runs, struggling and leaping, amid the\ngreat rocks of the valley of Montagut in the drought of summer, ye have\nfound, on a fiery afternoon, shade and slumber beneath the broken\nmonastery arches, whose mossy pillars kiss the waves, hearken to me!\n\nLittle Daughters of the hamlets roundabout, ye wild lilies who bloom\nhappy in the shelter of your humbleness, if on the morning of the Patron\nSaint of this locality, coming down into the valley of Montagut to\ngather clovers and daisies to deck his shrine, conquering the fear which\nthe sombre monastery, rising on its rocks, strikes to your childish\nhearts, ye have ventured into its silent and deserted cloister to wander\namid its forsaken tombs, on whose edges grow the fullest-petaled daisies\nand the bluest harebells, hearken to me!\n\nThou, Noble Knight, perchance by the gleam of a lightning flash; thou,\nWandering Shepherd, bronzed by the fierce heat of the sun; thou, Lovely\nChild, still besprent with drops of dew like tears, all ye would have\nseen in that holy place a tomb, a lowly tomb. Formerly it consisted of\nan unhewn stone and a wooden cross; the cross has disappeared and only\nthe stone remains. In this tomb, whose inscription is the motto of my\nsong, rests in peace the last baron of Fortcastell, Teobaldo de\nMontagut, whose strange history I am about to tell.\n\n\nI.\n\nWhile the noble Countess of Montagut was pregnant with her firstborn\nson, Teobaldo, she had a strange and terrible dream. Perchance a divine\nwarning; mayhap a vain fantasy which time made real in later years. She\ndreamed that in her womb she had borne a serpent, a monstrous serpent\nthat, darting out shrill hisses, now gliding through the short grass,\nnow coiling upon itself for a spring, fled from her sight, hiding at\nlast in a clump of briers.\n\n\u201cThere it is! there it is!\u201d shrieked the Countess in her horrible\nnightmare, pointing out to her servitors the brambles among which the\nnauseous reptile had sought concealment.\n\nWhen the servitors had swiftly reached the spot which the noble lady,\nmotionless and overwhelmed by a profound terror, was still pointing out\nto them with her finger, a white dove rose from out the prickly thicket\nand soared to the clouds.\n\nThe serpent had disappeared.\n\n\nII.\n\nTeobaldo was born. His mother died in giving him birth; his father\nperished a few years later in an ambuscade, warring like a good\nChristian against the Moors, the enemies of God.\n\nFrom this time on the youth of the heir of Fortcastell can be likened\nonly to a hurricane. Wherever he went, his way was marked by a trail of\ntears and blood. He hanged his vassals, he fought his equals, he pursued\nmaidens, he beat the monks, and never ceased from oaths and blasphemies.\nThere was no saint in peace, no hallowed thing, he did not curse.\n\n\nIII.\n\nOne day when he was out hunting and when, as was his custom, he had had\nall his devilish retinue of profligate pages, inhuman archers and\ndebased servants, with the dogs, horses and gerfalcons, take shelter\nfrom the rain in a village church of his demesne, a venerable priest,\ndaring the young lord\u2019s wrath, not quailing at thought of the fury-fits\nof that wild nature, raised the consecrated Host in his hands and\nconjured the invader in the name of Heaven to depart from that place and\ngo on foot, with pilgrim staff, to entreat of the Pope absolution for\nhis crimes.\n\n\u201cLeave me alone, old fool!\u201d exclaimed Teobaldo on hearing this,--\u201cleave\nme alone! Or, since I have not come on a single quarry all day long, I\nwill let loose my hounds and chase thee like a wild boar for my sport.\u201d\n\n\nIV.\n\nWith Teobaldo a word was a deed. Yet the priest made no answer save\nthis:\n\n\u201cDo what thou wilt, but remember that there is a God who chastises and\nwho pardons. If I die at thy hands, He will blot out my sins from the\nbook of His displeasure, to write thy name in their place and to make\nthee expiate thy crime.\u201d\n\n\u201cA God who chastises and pardons!\u201d interrupted the blasphemous baron\nwith a burst of laughter. \u201cI do not believe in God and, by way of proof,\nI am going to carry out my threat; for though not much given to prayer,\nI am a man of my word. Raimundo! Gerardo! Pedro! Set on the pack! give\nme a javelin! blow the _alali_ on your horns, since we will hunt down\nthis idiot, though he climb to the tops of his altars.\u201d\n\n\nV.\n\nAfter an instant\u2019s hesitation and a fresh command from their lord, the\npages began to unleash the greyhounds that filled the church with the\ndin of their eager barking; the baron had strung his crossbow, laughing\na Satanic laugh; and the venerable priest, murmuring a prayer, was, with\nhis eyes raised to heaven, tranquilly awaiting death, when there rose\noutside the sacred enclosure a wild halloo, the braying of horns\nproclaiming that the game had been sighted, and shouts of _After the\nboar! Across the brushwood! To the mountain!_ Teobaldo, at this\nannouncement of the longed-for quarry, dashed open the doors of the\nchurch, transported by delight; behind him went his retainers, and with\nhis retainers the horses and hounds.\n\n\nVI.\n\n\u201cWhich way went the boar?\u201d asked the baron as he sprang upon his steed\nwithout touching the stirrups or unstringing his bow. \u201cBy the glen which\nruns to the foot of those hills,\u201d they answered him. Without hearing the\nlast word, the impetuous hunter buried his golden spur in the flank of\nthe horse, who bounded away at full gallop. Behind him departed all the\nrest.\n\nThe dwellers in the hamlet, who had been the first to give the alarm and\nwho, at the approach of the terrible beast, had taken refuge in their\nhuts, timidly thrust out their heads from behind their window-shutters,\nand when they saw that the infernal troop had disappeared among the\nfoliage of the woods, they crossed themselves in silence.\n\n\nVII.\n\nTeobaldo rode in advance of all. His steed, swifter by nature or more\nseverely goaded than those of the retainers, followed so close to the\nquarry that twice or thrice the baron, dropping his bridle upon the neck\nof the fiery courser, had stood up in his stirrups and drawn the bow to\nhis shoulder to wound his prey. But the boar, whom he saw only at\nintervals among the tangled thickets, would again vanish from view to\nreappear just out of reach of the arrow.\n\nSo he pursued the chase hour after hour, traversing the ravines of the\nvalley and the stony bed of the stream, until, plunging into a deep\nforest, he lost his way in its shadowy defiles, his eyes ever fixed on\nthe coveted game he constantly expected to overtake, only to find\nhimself constantly mocked by its marvellous agility.\n\n\nVIII.\n\nAt last, he had his chance; he extended his arm and let fly the shaft,\nwhich plunged, quivering, into the loin of the terrible beast that gave\na leap and a frightful snort.--\u201cDead!\u201d exclaims the hunter with a shout\nof glee, driving his spur for the hundredth time into the bloody flank\nof his horse. \u201cDead! in vain he flees. The trail of his flowing blood\nmarks his way.\u201d And so speaking, Teobaldo commenced to sound upon his\nbugle the signal of triumph that his retinue might hear.\n\nAt that instant his steed stopped short, its legs gave way, a slight\ntremor shook its strained muscles, it fell flat to the ground, shooting\nout from its swollen nostrils, bathed in foam, a rill of blood.\n\nIt had died of exhaustion, died when the pace of the wounded boar was\nbeginning to slacken, when but one more effort was needed to run the\nquarry down.\n\n\nIX.\n\nTo paint the wrath of the fierce-tempered Teobaldo would be impossible.\nTo repeat his oaths and his curses, merely to repeat them, would be\nscandalous and impious. He shouted at the top of his voice to his\nretainers, but only echo answered him in those vast solitudes, and he\ntore his hair and plucked at his beard, a prey to the most furious\ndespair.--\u201cI will run it down, even though I break every blood-vessel in\nmy body,\u201d he exclaimed at last, stringing his bow anew and making ready\nto pursue the game on foot; but at that very instant he heard a sound\nbehind him; the thick branches of the wood opened, and before his eyes\nappeared a page leading by the halter a charger black as night.\n\n\u201cHeaven hath sent it to me,\u201d exclaimed the hunter, leaping upon its\nloins lightly as a deer. The page, who was thin, very thin, and yellow\nas death, smiled a strange smile as he handed him the bridle.\n\n\nX.\n\nThe horse whinnied with a force which made the forest tremble, gave an\nincredible bound, a bound that raised him more than thirty feet above\nthe earth, and the air began to hum about the ears of the rider, as a\nstone hums, hurled from a sling. He had started off at full gallop; but\nat a gallop so headlong that, afraid of losing the stirrups and in his\ndizziness falling to the ground, he had to shut his eyes and with both\nhands clutch the streaming mane.\n\nAnd still without a shake of the reins, without touch of spur or call of\nvoice, the steed ran, ran without ceasing. How long did Teobaldo gallop\nthus, unwitting where, feeling the branches buffet his face as he rushed\nby, and the brambles tear at his clothing, and the wind whistle about\nhis head? No human being knows.\n\n\nXI.\n\nWhen, recovering courage, he opened his eyes an instant to throw a\ntroubled glance about him, he found himself far, very far from Montagut,\nand in a district that was to him entirely unknown. The steed ran, ran\nwithout ceasing, and trees, rocks, castles and villages passed by him\nlike a breath. New and still new horizons opened to his view,--horizons\nthat melted away only to give place to others stranger and yet more\nstrange. Narrow valleys, bristling with colossal fragments of granite\nwhich the tempests had torn down from mountain-summits; smiling plains,\ncovered with a carpet of verdure and sprinkled over with white villages;\nlimitless deserts, where the sands seethed beneath the searching rays of\na sun of fire; immeasurable wildernesses, boundless steppes, regions of\neternal snow, where the gigantic icebergs, standing out against a dim\ngrey sky, were like white phantoms reaching out their arms to seize him\nby the hair as he fled past; all this, and thousands of other sights\nthat I cannot depict, he saw in his wild race, until, enveloped in an\nobscure cloud, he ceased to hear the tramp of his horse\u2019s hoofs beating\nthe ground.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nI.\n\nNoble Knights, Shepherds, Lovely Little Maids who hearken to my lay, if\nwhat I tell be a marvel in your ears, deem it not a fable woven at my\nwhim to steal a march on your credulity; from mouth to mouth this\ntradition has been passed down to me, and the inscription upon the tomb\nwhich still abides in the monastery of Montagut is an unimpeachable\nproof of the veracity of my words.\n\nBelieve, then, what I have told, and believe what I have yet to tell,\nfor it is as certain as the foregoing, although more wonderful.\nPerchance I shall be able to adorn with a few graces of poetry the bare\nskeleton of this simple and terrible history, but never will I\nconsciously depart one iota from the truth.\n\n\nII.\n\nWhen Teobaldo ceased to perceive the hoof-beats of his courser and felt\nhimself hurled forth upon the void, he could not repress an involuntary\nshudder of terror. Up to this point he had believed that the objects\nwhich flashed before his eyes were the wild visions of his imagination,\nperturbed as it was by giddiness, and that his steed ran uncontrolled,\nto be sure, but still ran within the boundaries of his own seigniory.\nNow there remained no doubt that he was the sport of a supernatural\npower, which was hurrying him he knew not whither, through those masses\nof dark clouds, clouds of freakish and fantastic forms, in whose depths,\nlit up from time to time by flashes of lightning, he thought he could\ndistinguish the burning thunderbolts about to break upon him.\n\nThe steed still ran, or, be it better said, swam now in that ocean of\nvague and fiery vapors, and the wonders of the sky began to display\nthemselves one after another before the astounded eyes of his rider.\n\n\nIII.\n\nHe saw the angels, ministers of the wrath of God, clad in long tunics\nwith fringes of fire, their burning hair loose on the hurricane, their\nbrandished swords, which flashed the lightning, throwing out sparks of\ncrimson light,--he saw this heavenly cavalry wheeling upon the clouds,\nsweeping like a mighty army over the wings of the tempest.\n\nAnd he mounted higher, and he deemed he descried, from far above, the\nstormy clouds like a sea of lava, and heard the thunder moan below him\nas moans the ocean breaking on the cliff from whose summit the pilgrim\nviews it all amazed.\n\n\nIV.\n\nAnd he saw the archangel, white as snow, who, throned on a great crystal\nglobe, steers it through space in the cloudless nights like a silver\nboat over the surface of an azure lake.\n\nAnd he saw the sun revolving in splendor on golden axles through an\natmosphere of color and of flame, and at its centre the fiery spirits\nwho dwell unharmed in that intensest glow and from its blazing heart\nentone to their Creator hymns of praise.\n\nHe saw the threads of imperceptible light which bind men to the stars,\nand he saw the rainbow arch, thrown like a colossal bridge across the\nabyss which divides the first from the second heaven.\n\n\nV.\n\nBy a mystic stair he saw souls descend to earth; he saw many come down,\nand few go up. Each one of these innocent spirits went accompanied by a\nmost radiant archangel who covered it with the shadow of his wings. The\narchangels who returned alone came in silence, weeping; but the others\nmounted singing like the larks on April mornings.\n\nThen the rosy and azure mists which floated in the ether, like curtains\nof transparent gauze, were rent, as Holy Saturday, the Day of Glory,\nrends in our churches the veiling of the altars, and the Paradise of the\nRighteous opened, dazzling in its beauty, to his gaze.\n\n\nVI.\n\nThere were the holy prophets whom you have seen rudely sculptured on the\nstone portals of our cathedrals, there the shining virgins whom the\npainter vainly strives, in the stained glass of the ogive windows, to\ncopy from his dreams; there the cherubim with their long and floating\nrobes and haloes of gold; as in the altar pictures; there, at last,\ncrowned with stars, clad in light, surrounded by all the celestial\nhierarchy, and beautiful beyond all thought, Our Lady of Montserrat,\nMother of God, Queen of Archangels, the shelter of sinners and the\nconsolation of the afflicted.\n\n[Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF MONTSERRAT]\n\n\nVII.\n\nBeyond the Paradise of the Righteous; beyond the throne where sits the\nVirgin Mary. The mind of Teobaldo was stricken by terror; a fathomless\nfear possessed his soul. Eternal solitude, eternal silence live in those\nspaces that lead to the mysterious sanctuary of the Most High. From time\nto time a rush of wind, cold as the blade of a poniard, smote his\nforehead,--a wind that shriveled his hair with horror and penetrated to\nthe marrow of his bones,--a wind like to those which announced to the\nprophets the approach of the Divine Spirit. At last he reached a point\nwhere he thought he perceived a dull murmur that might be likened to the\nfar-off hum of a swarm of bees, when, in autumn evenings, they hover\naround the last of the flowers.\n\n\nVIII.\n\nHe crossed that fantastic region whither go all the accents of the\nearth, the sounds which we say have ceased, the words which we deem are\nlost in the air, the laments which we believe are heard of none.\n\nThere, in a harmonious circle, float the prayers of little children, the\norisons of virgins, the psalms of holy hermits, the petitions of the\nhumble, the chaste words of the pure in heart, the resigned moans of\nthose in pain, the sobs of souls that suffer and the hymns of souls that\nhope. Teobaldo heard among those voices, that throbbed still in the\nluminous ether, the voice of his sainted mother who prayed to God for\nhim; but he heard no prayer of his own.\n\n\nIX.\n\nFurther on, thousands on thousands of harsh, rough accents wounded his\nears with a discordant roar,--blasphemies, cries for vengeance, drinking\nsongs, indecencies, curses of despair, threats of the helpless, and\nsacrilegious oaths of the impious.\n\nTeobaldo traversed the second circle with the rapidity of a meteor\ncrossing the sky in a summer evening, that he might not hear his own\nvoice which vibrated there thunderously loud, exceeding all other voices\nin the stress of that infernal concert.\n\n\u201cI do not believe in God! I do not believe in God!\u201d still spake his tone\nbeating through that ocean of blasphemies; and Teobaldo began to\nbelieve.\n\n\nX.\n\nHe left those regions behind him and crossed other illimitable spaces\nfull of terrible visions, which neither could he comprehend nor am I\nable to conceive, and finally he came to the uppermost circle of the\nspiral heavens, where the seraphim adore Jehovah, covering their faces\nwith their triple wings and prostrate at His feet.\n\nHe would see God.\n\nA waft of fire scorched his face, a sea of light darkened his eyes,\nunbearable thunder resounded in his ears and, caught from his charger\nand hurled into the void, like an incandescent stone shot out from a\nvolcano, he felt himself falling, and falling without ever alighting,\nblind, burned and deafened, as the rebellious angel fell when God\noverthrew with a breath the pedestal of his pride.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nI.\n\nNight had shut in, and the wind moaned as it stirred the leaves of the\ntrees, through whose luxuriant foliage was slipping a soft ray of\nmoonlight, when Teobaldo, rising upon his elbow and rubbing his eyes as\nif awakening from profound slumber, looked about him and found himself\nin the same wood where he had wounded the boar, where his steed fell\ndead, where was given him that phantasmal courser which had rushed him\naway to unknown, mysterious realms.\n\nA deathlike silence reigned about him, a silence broken only by the\ndistant calling of the deer, the timid murmur of the leaves, and the\necho of a far-off bell borne to his ears from time to time upon the\ngentle gusts.\n\n\u201cI must have dreamed,\u201d said the baron, and set forth on his way across\nthe wood, coming out at last into the open.\n\n\nII.\n\nAt a great distance, and above the rocks of Montagut, he saw the black\nsilhouette of his castle standing out against the blue, transparent\nbackground of the night sky--\u201cMy castle is far away and I am weary,\u201d he\nmuttered. \u201cI will await the day in this village-hut near by,\u201d and he\nbent his steps to the hut. He knocked at the door. \u201cWho are you?\u201d they\ndemanded from within. \u201cThe Baron of Fortcastell,\u201d he replied, and they\nlaughed in his face. He knocked at another door. \u201cWho are you and what\ndo you want?\u201d these, too, asked him. \u201cYour liege lord,\u201d urged the\nknight, surprised that they did not recognize him. \u201cTeobaldo de\nMontagut.\u201d \u201cTeobaldo de Montagut!\u201d angrily repeated the person within, a\nwoman not yet old. \u201cTeobaldo de Montagut, the count of the story! Bah!\nGo your way and don\u2019t come back to rouse honest folk from their sleep to\nhear your stupid jests.\u201d\n\n\nIII.\n\nTeobaldo, full of astonishment, left the village and pursued his way to\nthe castle, at whose gates he arrived when it was scarcely dawn. The\nmoat was filled up with great blocks of stone from the ruined\nbattlements; the raised drawbridge, now useless, was rotting as it still\nhung from its strong iron chains, covered with rust though they were by\nthe wasting of the years; in the homage-tower slowly tolled a bell; in\nfront of the principal arch of the fortress and upon a granite pedestal\nwas raised a cross; upon the walls not a single soldier was to be\ndiscerned; and, indistinct and muffled, there seemed to come from its\nheart like a distant murmur a sacred hymn, grave, solemn and majestic.\n\n\u201cBut this is my castle, beyond a doubt,\u201d said Teobaldo, shifting his\ntroubled gaze from one point to another, unable to comprehend the\nsituation. \u201cThat is my escutcheon, still engraved above the keystone of\nthe arch. This is the valley of Montagut. These are the lands it\ngoverns, the seigniory of Fortcastell\u201d--\n\nAt this instant the heavy doors swung upon their hinges and a monk\nappeared beneath the lintel.\n\n\nIV.\n\n\u201cWho are you and what are you doing here?\u201d demanded Teobaldo of the\nmonk.\n\n\u201cI am,\u201d he answered, \u201ca humble servant of God, a monk of the monastery\nof Montagut.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut\u201d--interrupted the baron. \u201cMontagut? Is it not a seigniory?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was,\u201d replied the monk, \u201ca long time ago. Its last lord, the story\ngoes, was carried off by the Devil, and as he left no heir to succeed\nhim in the fief, the Sovereign Counts granted his estate to the monks of\nour order, who have been here for a matter of from one hundred to one\nhundred and twenty years. And you--who are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u201d--stammered the Baron of Fortcastell, after a long moment of silence,\n\u201cI am--a miserable sinner, who, repenting of his misdeeds, comes to make\nconfession to your abbot and beg him for admittance into the bosom of\nhis faith.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROMISE\n\n\nI.\n\nMargarita, her face hidden in her hands, was weeping; she did not sob,\nbut the tears ran silently down her cheeks, slipping between her fingers\nto fall to the earth toward which her brow was bent.\n\nNear Margarita was Pedro, who from time to time lifted his eyes to steal\na glance at her and, seeing that she still wept, dropped them again,\nmaintaining for his part utter silence.\n\nAll was hushed about them, as if respecting her grief. The murmurs of\nthe field were stilled, the breeze of evening slept, and darkness was\nbeginning to envelop the dense growth of the wood.\n\nThus some moments passed, during which the trace of light that the dying\nsun had left on the horizon faded quite away; the moon began to be\nfaintly sketched against the violet background of the twilight sky, and\none after another shone out the brighter stars.\n\nPedro broke at last that distressful silence, exclaiming in a hoarse and\ngasping voice and as if he were communing with himself:\n\n\u201c\u2018Tis impossible--impossible!\u201d\n\nThen, coming close to the inconsolable maiden and taking one of her\nhands, he continued in a softer, more caressing tone:\n\n\u201cMargarita, for thee love is all, and thou seest naught beyond love.\nYet there is one thing as binding as our love, and that is my duty. Our\nlord the Count of G\u00f4mara goes forth to-morrow from his castle to join\nhis force to the army of King Fernando, who is on his way to deliver\nSeville out of the power of the Infidels, and it is my duty to depart\nwith the Count.\n\n\u201cAn obscure orphan, without name or family, I owe to him all that I am.\nI have served him in the idle days of peace, I have slept beneath his\nroof, I have been warmed at his hearth and eaten at his board. If I\nforsake him now, to-morrow his men-at-arms, as they sally forth in\nmarching array from his castle gates, will ask, wondering at my absence:\n\u2018Where is the favorite squire of the Count of G\u00f4mara?\u2019 And my lord will\nbe silent for shame, and his pages and his fools will say in mocking\ntone: \u2018The Count\u2019s squire is only a gallant of the jousts, a warrior in\nthe game of courtesy.\u2019\u201d\n\nWhen he had spoken thus far, Margarita lifted her eyes full of tears to\nmeet those of her lover and moved her lips as if to answer him; but her\nvoice was choked in a sob.\n\nPedro, with still tenderer and more persuasive tone, went on:\n\n\u201cWeep not, for God\u2019s sake, Margarita; weep not, for thy tears hurt me. I\nmust go from thee, but I will return as soon as I shall have gained a\nlittle glory for my obscure name.\n\n\u201cHeaven will aid us in our holy enterprise; we shall conquer Seville,\nand to us conquerors the King will give fiefs along the banks of the\nGuadalquivir. Then I will come back for thee, and we will go together to\ndwell in that paradise of the Arabs, where they say the sky is clearer\nand more blue than the sky above Castile.\n\n\u201cI will come back, I swear to thee I will; I will return to keep the\ntroth solemnly pledged thee that day when I placed on thy finger this\nring, symbol of a promise.\u201d\n\n\u201cPedro!\u201d here exclaimed Margarita, controlling her emotion and speaking\nin a firm, determined tone:\n\n\u201cGo, go to uphold thine honor,\u201d and on pronouncing these words, she\nthrew herself for the last time into the embrace of her lover. Then she\nadded in a tone lower and more shaken: \u201cGo to uphold thine honor, but\ncome back--come back--to save mine.\u201d\n\nPedro kissed the brow of Margarita, loosed his horse, that was tied to\none of the trees of the grove, and rode off at a gallop through the\ndepths of the poplar-wood.\n\nMargarita followed Pedro with her eyes until his dim form was swallowed\nup in the shades of night. When he could no longer be discerned, she\nwent back slowly to the village where her brothers were awaiting her.\n\n\u201cPut on thy gala dress,\u201d one of them said to her as she entered, \u201cfor in\nthe morning we go to G\u00f4mara with all the neighborhood to see the Count\nmarching to Andalusia.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor my part, it saddens rather than gladdens me to see those go forth\nwho perchance shall not return,\u201d replied Margarita with a sigh.\n\n\u201cYet come with us thou must,\u201d insisted the other brother, \u201cand thou must\ncome with mien composed and glad; so that the gossiping folk shall have\nno cause to say thou hast a lover in the castle, and thy lover goeth to\nthe war.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\nHardly was the first light of dawn streaming up the sky when there began\nto sound throughout all the camp of G\u00f4mara the shrill trumpeting of the\nCount\u2019s soldiers; and the peasants who were arriving in numerous groups\nfrom the villages round about saw the seigniorial banner flung to the\nwinds from the highest tower of the fortress.\n\nThe peasants were everywhere,--seated on the edge of the moat, ensconced\nin the tops of trees, strolling over the plain, crowning the crests of\nthe hills, forming a line far along the highway, and it must have been\nalready for nearly an hour that their curiosity had awaited the show,\nnot without some signs of impatience, when the ringing bugle-call\nsounded again, the chains of the drawbridge creaked as it fell slowly\nacross the moat, and the portcullis was raised, while little by little,\ngroaning upon their hinges, the massive doors of the arched passage\nwhich led to the Court of Arms swung wide.\n\nThe multitude ran to press for places on the sloping banks beside the\nroad in order to see their fill of the brilliant armor and sumptuous\ntrappings of the following of the Count of G\u00f4mara, famed through all the\ncountryside for his splendor and his lavish pomp.\n\nThe march was opened by the heralds who, halting at fixed intervals,\nproclaimed in loud voice, to the beat of the drum, the commands of the\nKing, summoning his feudatories to the Moorish war and requiring the\nvillages and free towns to give passage and aid to his armies.\n\nAfter the heralds followed the kings-at-arms, proud of their silken\nvestments, their shields bordered with gold and bright colors, and their\ncaps decked with graceful plumes.\n\nThen came the chief retainer of the castle armed cap-\u00e0-pie, a knight\nmounted on a young black horse, bearing in his hands the pennon of a\ngrandee with his motto and device; at his left hand rode the executioner\nof the seigniory, clad in black and red.\n\nThe seneschal was preceded by fully a score of those famous trumpeters\nof Castile celebrated in the chronicles of our kings for the incredible\npower of their lungs.\n\nWhen the shrill clamor of their mighty trumpeting ceased to wound the\nwind, a dull sound, steady and monotonous, began to reach the ear,--the\ntramp of the foot-soldiers, armed with long pikes and provided with a\nleather shield apiece. Behind these soon came in view the soldiers who\nmanaged the engines of war, with their crude machines and their wooden\ntowers, the bands of wall-scalers and the rabble of stable-boys in\ncharge of the mules.\n\nThen, enveloped in the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs of their\nhorses, flashing sparks from their iron breastplates, passed the\nmen-at-arms of the castle, formed in thick platoons, looking from a\ndistance like a forest of spears.\n\nLast of all, preceded by the drummers who were mounted on strong mules\ntricked out in housings and plumes, surrounded by pages in rich raiment\nof silk and gold and followed by the squires of the castle, appeared the\nCount.\n\nAs the multitude caught sight of him, a great shout of greeting went up\nand in the tumult of acclamation was stifled the cry of a woman, who at\nthat moment, as if struck by a thunderbolt, fell fainting into the arms\nof those who sprang to her aid. It was Margarita, Margarita who had\nrecognized her mysterious lover in that great and dreadful lord, the\nCount of G\u00f4mara, one of the most exalted and powerful feudatories of the\nCrown of Castile.\n\n\nIII.\n\nThe host of Don Fernando, after going forth from Cordova, had marched to\nSeville, not without having to fight its way at \u00c9cija, Carmona, and\nAlcal\u00e1 del Rio del Guadaira, whose famous castle, once taken by storm,\nput the army in sight of the stronghold of the Infidels.\n\nThe Count of G\u00f4mara was in his tent seated on a bench of larchwood,\nmotionless, pale, terrible, his hands crossed upon the hilt of his\nbroadsword, his eyes fixed on space with that vague regard which appears\nto behold a definite object and yet takes cognizance of naught in the\nencompassing scene.\n\nStanding by his side, the squire who had been longest in the castle, the\nonly one who in those moods of black despondency could have ventured to\nintrude without drawing down upon his head an explosion of wrath, was\nspeaking to him. \u201cWhat is your ail, my lord?\u201d he was saying. \u201cWhat\ntrouble wears and wastes you? Sad you go to battle, and sad return, even\nthough returning victorious. When all the warriors sleep, surrendered to\nthe weariness of the day, I hear your anguished sighs; and if I run to\nyour bed, I see you struggling there against some invisible torment. You\nopen your eyes, but your terror does not vanish. What is it, my lord?\nTell me. If it be a secret, I will guard it in the depths of my memory\nas in a grave.\u201d\n\nThe Count seemed not to hear his squire, but after a long pause, as if\nthe words had taken all that time to make slow way from his ears to his\nunderstanding, he emerged little by little from his trance and, drawing\nthe squire affectionately toward him, said to him with grave and quiet\ntone:\n\n\u201cI have suffered much in silence. Believing myself the sport of a vain\nfantasy, I have until now held my peace for shame,--but nay, what is\nhappening to me is no illusion.\n\n\u201cIt must be that I am under the power of some awful curse. Heaven or\nhell must wish something of me, and tell me so by supernatural events.\nRecallest thou the day of our encounter with the Moors of Nebriza in the\nAljarafe de Triana? We were few, the combat was stern, and I was face to\nface with death. Thou sawest, in the most critical moment of the fight,\nmy horse, wounded and blind with rage, dash toward the main body of the\nMoorish host. I strove in vain to check him; the reins had escaped from\nmy hands, and the fiery animal galloped on, bearing me to certain death.\n\n\u201cAlready the Moors, closing up their ranks, were grounding their long\npikes to receive me on the points; a cloud of arrows hissed about my\nears; the horse was but a few bounds from the serried spears on which we\nwere about to fling\n\n[Illustration: AN ANCIENT CASTLE]\n\nourselves, when--believe me, it was not an illusion--I saw a hand that,\ngrasping the bridle, stopped him with an unearthly force and, turning\nhim in the direction of my own troops, saved me by a miracle.\n\n\u201cIn vain I asked of one and another who my deliverer was; no one knew\nhim, no one had seen him.\n\n\u201c\u2018When you were rushing to throw yourself upon the wall of pikes,\u2019 they\nsaid, \u2018you went alone, absolutely alone; this is why we marvelled to see\nyou turn, knowing that the steed no longer obeyed his rider.\u2019\n\n\u201cThat night I entered my tent distraught; I strove in vain to extirpate\nfrom my imagination the memory of the strange adventure; but on\nadvancing toward my bed, again I saw the same hand, a beautiful hand,\nwhite to the point of pallor, which drew the curtains, vanishing after\nit had drawn them. Ever since, at all hours, in all places, I see that\nmysterious hand which anticipates my desires and forestalls my actions.\nI saw it, when we were storming the castle of Triana, catch between its\nfingers and break in the air an arrow which was about to strike me; I\nhave seen it at banquets where I was trying to drown my trouble in the\ntumultuous revelry, pour the wine into my cup; and always it flickers\nbefore my eyes, and wherever I go it follows me; in the tent, in the\nbattle, by day, by night,--even now, see it, see it here, resting gently\non my shoulder!\u201d\n\nOn speaking these last words, the Count sprang to his feet, striding\nback and forth as if beside himself, overwhelmed by utter terror.\n\nThe squire dashed away a tear. Believing his lord mad, he did not try to\ncombat his ideas, but confined himself to saying in a voice of deep\nemotion:\n\n\u201cCome; let us go out from the tent a moment; perhaps the evening air\nwill cool your temples, calming this incomprehensible grief, for which I\nfind no words of consolation.\u201d\n\n\nIV.\n\nThe camp of the Christians extended over all the plain of Guadaira, even\nto the left bank of the Guadalquivir. In front of the camp and clearly\ndefined against the bright horizon, rose the walls of Seville flanked by\nmassive, menacing towers. Above the crown of battlements showed in its\nrich profusion the green leafage of the thousand gardens enclosed in the\nMoorish stronghold, and amid the dim clusters of foliage gleamed the\nobservation turrets, white as snow, the minarets of the mosques, and the\ngigantic watch-tower, over whose aerial parapet the four great balls of\ngold, which from the Christian camp looked like four flames, threw out,\nwhen smitten by the sun, sparks of living light.\n\nThe enterprise of Don Fernando, one of the most heroic and intrepid of\nthat epoch, had drawn to his banners the greatest warriors of the\nvarious kingdoms in the Peninsula, with others who, called by fame, had\ncome from foreign, far-off lands to add their forces to those of the\nRoyal Saint. Stretching along the plain might be seen, therefore,\narmy-tents of all forms and colors, above whose peaks waved in the wind\nthe various ensigns with their quartered escutcheons,--stars, griffins,\nlions, chains, bars and caldrons, with hundreds of other heraldic\nfigures or symbols which proclaimed the name and quality of their\nowners. Through the streets of that improvised city were circulating in\nall directions a multitude of soldiers who, speaking diverse dialects,\ndressed each in the fashion of his own locality and armed according to\nhis fancy, formed a scene of strange and picturesque contrasts.\n\nHere a group of nobles were resting from the fatigues of combat, seated\non benches of larchwood at the door of their tents and playing at chess,\nwhile their pages poured them wine in metal cups; there some\nfoot-soldiers were taking advantage of a moment of leisure to clean and\nmend their armor, the worse for their last skirmish; further on, the\nmost expert archers of the army were covering the mark with arrows,\namidst the applause of the crowd marvelling at their dexterity; and the\nbeating of the drums, the shrilling of the trumpets, the cries of\npedlars hawking their wares, the clang of iron striking on iron, the\nballad-singing of the minstrels who entertained their hearers with the\nrelation of prodigious exploits, and the shouts of the heralds who\npublished the orders of the camp-masters, all these, filling the air\nwith thousands of discordant noises, contributed to that picture of\nsoldier life a vivacity and animation impossible to portray in words.\n\nThe Count of G\u00f4mara, attended by his faithful squire, passed among the\nlively groups without raising his eyes from the ground, silent, sad, as\nif not a sight disturbed his gaze nor the least sound reached his\nhearing. He moved mechanically, as a sleepwalker, whose spirit is busy\nin the world of dreams, steps and takes his course without consciousness\nof his actions, as if impelled by a will not his own.\n\nClose by the royal tent and in the middle of a ring of soldiers, little\npages and camp-servants, who were listening to him open-mouthed, making\nhaste to buy some of the tawdry knickknacks which he was enumerating in\na loud voice, with extravagant praises, was an odd personage, half\npilgrim, half minstrel, who, at one moment reciting a kind of litany in\nbarbarous Latin, and the next giving vent to some buffoonery or\nscurrility, was mingling in his interminable tale devout prayers with\njests broad enough to make a common soldier blush, romances of illicit\nlove with legends of saints. In the huge pack that hung from his\nshoulders were a thousand different objects all tossed and tumbled\ntogether,--ribbons touched to the sepulchre of Santiago, scrolls with\nwords which he averred were Hebrew, the very same that King Solomon\nspoke when he founded the temple, and the only words able to keep you\nfree of every contagious disease; marvellous balsams capable of sticking\ntogether men who were cut in two; secret charms to make all women in\nlove with you; Gospels sewed into little silk bags; relics of the patron\nsaints of all the towns in Spain; tinsel jewels, chains, sword-belts,\nmedals and many other gewgaws of brass, glass and lead.\n\nWhen the Count approached the group formed by the pilgrim and his\nadmirers, the fellow began to tune a kind of mandolin or Arab guitar\nwith which he accompanied himself in the singsong recital of his\nromances. When he had thoroughly tested the strings, one after another,\nvery coolly, while his companion made the round of the circle coaxing\nout the last coppers from the flaccid pouches of the audience, the\npilgrim began to sing in nasal voice, to a monotonous and plaintive air,\na ballad whose stanzas always ended in the same refrain.\n\nThe Count drew near the group and gave attention. By an apparently\nstrange coincidence, the title of this tale was entirely at one with the\nmelancholy thoughts that burdened his mind. As the singer had announced\nbefore beginning, the lay was called the _Ballad of the Dead Hand_.\n\nThe squire, on hearing so strange an announcement, had striven to draw\nhis lord away; but the Count, with his eyes fixed on the minstrel,\nremained motionless, listening to this song.\n\n I.\n\n A maiden had a lover gay\n Who said he was a squire;\n The war-drums called him far away;\n Not tears could quench his fire.\n \u201cThou goest to return no more.\u201d\n \u201cNay, by all oaths that bind\u201d--\n But even while the lover swore,\n A voice was on the wind:\n _Ill fares the soul that sets its trust_\n _On faith of dust._\n\n II.\n\n Forth from his castle rode the lord\n With all his glittering train,\n But never will his battle-sword\n Inflict so keen a pain.\n \u201cHis soldier-honor well he keeps;\n Mine honor--blind! oh, blind!\u201d\n While the forsaken woman weeps,\n A voice is on the wind:\n _Ill fares the soul that sets its trust_\n _On faith of dust._\n\n III.\n\n Her brother\u2019s eye her secret reads;\n His fatal angers burn.\n \u201cThou hast us shamed.\u201d Her terror pleads,--\n \u201cHe swore he would return.\u201d\n \u201cBut not to find thee, if he tries,\n Where he was wont to find.\u201d\n Beneath her brother\u2019s blow she dies;\n A voice is on the wind:\n _Ill fares the soul that sets its trust_\n _On faith of dust._\n\n IV.\n\n In the trysting-wood, where love made mirth,\n They have buried her deep,--but lo!\n However high they heap the earth,\n A hand as white as snow\n Comes stealing up, a hand whose ring\n A noble\u2019s troth doth bind.\n Above her grave no maidens sing,\n But a voice is on the wind:\n _Ill fares the soul that sets its trust_\n _On faith of dust._\n\nHardly had the singer finished the last stanza, when, breaking through\nthe wall of eager listeners who respectfully gave way on recognizing\nhim, the Count fronted the pilgrim and, clutching his arm, demanded in a\nlow, convulsive voice:\n\n\u201cFrom what part of Spain art thou?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom Soria,\u201d was the unmoved response.\n\n\u201cAnd where hast thou learned this ballad? Who is that maiden of whom the\nstory tells?\u201d again exclaimed the Count, with ever more profound\nemotion.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said the pilgrim, fixing his eyes upon the Count with\nimperturbable steadiness, \u201cthis ballad is passed from mouth to mouth\namong the peasants in the fief of G\u00f4mara, and it refers to an unhappy\nvillage-girl cruelly wronged by a great lord. The high justice of God\nhas permitted that, in her burial, there shall still remain above the\nearth the hand on which her lover placed a ring in plighting her his\ntroth. Perchance you know whom it behooves to keep that pledge.\u201d\n\n\nV.\n\nIn a wretched village which may be found at one side of the highway\nleading to G\u00f4mara, I saw not long since the spot where the strange\nceremony of the Count\u2019s marriage is said to have taken place.\n\nAfter he, kneeling upon the humble grave, had pressed the hand of\nMargarita in his own, and a priest, authorized by the Pope, had blessed\nthe mournful union, the story goes that the miracle ceased, and _the\ndead hand_ buried itself forever.\n\nAt the foot of some great old trees there is a bit of meadow which,\nevery spring, covers itself spontaneously with flowers.\n\nThe country-folk say that this is the burial place of Margarita.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KISS\n\n\nI.\n\nWhen a division of the French army, at the beginning of the nineteenth\ncentury, took possession of historic Toledo, the officers in command,\nnot unaware of the danger to which French soldiers were exposed in\nSpanish towns by being quartered in separate lodgings, commenced to fit\nup as barracks the largest and best edifices of the city.\n\nAfter occupying the magnificent palace of Carlos V. they appropriated\nthe City Hall, and when this could hold no more, they began to invade\nthe pious shade of monasteries, at last making over into stables even\nthe churches sacred to worship. Such was the state of affairs in the\nfamous old town, scene of the event which I am about to recount, when\none night, already late, there entered the city, muffled in their dark\narmy-cloaks and deafening the narrow, lonely streets, from the Gate of\nthe Sun to the Zocodover, with the clang of weapons and the resounding\nbeat of the hoofs that struck sparks from the flinty way, one hundred or\nso of these tall dragoons, dashing, mettlesome fellows, whom our\ngrandmothers still tell about with admiration.\n\nThe force was commanded by a youthful officer, riding about thirty paces\nin advance of his troop and talking in low tones with a man on foot,\nwho, so far as might be inferred from his dress, was also a soldier.\nWalking in front of his interlocutor, with a small lantern in hand, he\nseemed to be serving as guide through that labyrinth of obscure, twisted\nand intertangled streets.\n\n\u201cIn sooth,\u201d said the trooper to his companion, \u201cif the lodging prepared\nfor us is even such as you picture it, perhaps it would be better to\ncamp out in the country or in one of the public squares.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what would you, my captain?\u201d answered the guide, who was, in fact,\na sergeant sent on before to make ready for their reception. \u201cIn the\npalace there is not room for another grain of wheat, much less for a\nman; of _San Juan de los Reyes_ there is no use in talking, for there it\nhas reached such a point that in one of the friars\u2019 cells are sleeping\nfifteen hussars. The monastery to which I am taking you was not so bad,\nbut some three or four days ago there fell upon us, as if out of the\nclouds, one of the flying columns that scour the province, and we are\nlucky to have prevailed on them to heap themselves up along the\ncloisters and leave the church free for us.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, well!\u201d exclaimed the officer, after a brief silence, with an air of\nresigning himself to the strange quarters which chance had apportioned\nhim, \u201can ill lodging is better than none. At all events, in case of\nrain,--not unlikely, judging from the massing of the clouds,--we shall\nbe under cover, and that is something.\u201d\n\nWith this the conversation was broken off, and the troopers, preceded by\nthe guide, took the onward way in silence until they came to one of the\nsmaller squares, on the further side of which stood out the black\nsilhouette of the monastery with its Moorish minaret, spired bell-tower,\nogive cupola and dark, uneven roof.\n\n\u201cHere is your lodging!\u201d exclaimed the sergeant at sight of it,\naddressing the captain, who, after commanding his troop to halt,\ndismounted, caught the lantern from the hands of the guide, and took his\nway toward the building designated.\n\nSince the church of the monastery was thoroughly dismantled, the\nsoldiers who occupied the other parts of the\n\n[Illustration: PALACE OF CARLOS V., TOLEDO]\n\nbuilding had thought that the doors were now a trifle less than useless\nand, piece by piece, had wrenched off one to-day, another to-morrow, to\nmake bonfires for warming themselves by night.\n\nOur young officer, therefore, did not have to delay for turning of keys\nor drawing of bolts before penetrating into the heart of the sanctuary.\n\nBy the light of the lantern, whose doubtful ray, lost in the heavy\nglooms of nave and aisles, threw in giant proportions upon the wall the\nfantastic shadow of the sergeant going on before, he traversed the\nlength and breadth of the church and peered into the deserted chapels,\none by one, until he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the\nplace, when he ordered his troop to dismount, and set about the\nbestowing of that confused crowd of men and horses as best he could.\n\nAs we have said, the church was completely dismantled; before the High\nAltar were still hanging from the lofty cornices torn shreds of the veil\nwith which the monks had covered it on abandoning that holy place; at\nintervals along the aisles might be seen shrines fastened against the\nwall, their niches bereft of images; in the choir a line of light traced\nthe strange contour of the shadowy larchwood stalls; upon the pavement,\ndestroyed at various points, might still be distinguished broad burial\nslabs filled with heraldic devices, shields and long Gothic\ninscriptions; and far away, in the depths of the silent chapels and\nalong the transepts, were vaguely visible in the dimness, like\nmotionless white spectres, marble statues which, some extended at full\nlength and others kneeling on their stony tombs, appeared to be the only\ntenants of that ruined structure.\n\nFor anyone less spent than the captain of dragoons, who carried in his\nbody the fatigues of a ride of fourteen leagues, or less accustomed to\nseeing these sacrileges as the most natural thing in the world, two\ndrams of imagination would have sufficed to keep eyes from closing the\nwhole night long in that dusky, awesome haunt, where the oaths of the\nsoldiers, who were loudly complaining of their improvised barracks, the\nmetallic clink of their spurs striking rudely against the once\nsepulchral slabs of the pavement, the clatter of the horses as they\npawed impatiently, tossing their heads and rattling the chains which\nbound them to the pillars, formed a strange and fearful confusion of\nsounds that reverberated through the reaches of the church and was\nrepeated, ever more weirdly, from echo to echo among the lofty vaults.\n\nBut our hero, young though he was, had already become so familiar with\nthose shiftings of the scene in a soldier\u2019s life, that scarcely had he\nassigned places to his men than he ordered a sack of fodder flung down\nat the foot of the chancel steps, and rolling himself as snugly as\npossible into his cloak, resting his head upon the lowest stair, in five\nminutes was snoring with more tranquillity than King Joseph himself in\nhis palace at Madrid.\n\nThe soldiers, making pillows of the saddles, followed his example, and\nlittle by little the murmur of their voices died away.\n\nHalf an hour later, nothing was to be heard save the stifled groans of\nthe wind which entered by the broken ogive windows of the church, the\nskurrying flights of night-birds whose nests were built in the stone\ncanopies above the sculptured figures of the walls, and the tramp, now\nnear, now far, of the sentry who was pacing up and down the portico,\nwound in the wide folds of his military cloak.\n\n\nII.\n\nIn the epoch to which the account of this incident, no less true than\nstrange, reverts, the city of Toledo, for those who knew not how to\nvalue the treasures of art which its walls enclose, was, even as now,\nno more than a great huddle of houses, old-fashioned, ruinous,\ninsufferable.\n\nThe officers of the French army who, to judge from the acts of vandalism\nby which they left in Toledo a sad and enduring memory of their\noccupation, counted few artists and arch\u00e6ologists in their number, found\nthemselves, as goes without the saying, supremely bored in the ancient\ncity of the C\u00e6sars.\n\nIn this frame of mind, the most trifling event which came to break the\nmonotonous calm of those eternal, unvarying days was eagerly caught up\namong the idlers, so that the promotion of one of their comrades to the\nnext grade, a report of the strategic movement of a flying column, the\ndeparture of an official post or the arrival at the city of any military\nforce whatsoever, became a fertile theme of conversation and object of\nevery sort of comment, until something else occurred to take its place\nand serve as foundation for new grumblings, criticisms and conjectures.\n\nAs was to be expected, among those officers who, according to their\ncustom, gathered on the following day to take the air and chat a little\nin the Zocodover, the dish of gossip was supplied by nothing else than\nthe arrival of the dragoons, whose leader was left in the former chapter\nstretched out at his ease, sleeping off the fatigues of the march. For\nupwards of an hour the conversation had been beating about this event,\nand already various explanations had been put forward to account for the\nnon-appearance of the new-comer, whom an officer present, a former\nschoolmate, had invited to the Zocodover, when at last, in one of the\nside-streets that radiate from the square, appeared our gallant captain,\nno longer obscured by his voluminous army-cloak, but sporting a great\nshining helmet with a plume of white feathers, a turquoise-blue coat\nwith scarlet facings, and a magnificent two-handed sword in a steel\nscabbard which clanked as it struck the ground in time to his martial\nstride and to the keener, sharper clink of his golden spurs.\n\nAs soon as his former chum caught sight of him, off he went to meet him\nand bid him welcome, followed by almost all the officers who chanced to\nbe in the group that morning and who had been stirred to curiosity and a\ndesire to know him by what they had already heard of his original,\nextraordinary traits of character.\n\nAfter the customary close embraces, and the exclamations, compliments\nand questions enjoined by etiquette in meetings like this; after\ndiscussing at length and in detail the latest news from Madrid, the\nchanging fortune of the war, and old friends dead or far away, the\nconversation, flitting from one subject to another, came to roost at\nlast on the inevitable theme, to wit, the hardships of the service, the\ndearth of amusements in the city, and the inconveniences of their\nlodgings.\n\nNow at this juncture one of the company, who, it would seem, had heard\nof the ill grace with which the young officer had resigned himself to\nquartering his troop in the abandoned church, said to him with an air of\nraillery:\n\n\u201cAnd speaking of lodgings, what sort of a night did you have in yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe lacked for nothing,\u201d answered the captain, \u201cand if it is the truth\nthat I slept but little, the cause of my insomnia is well worth the\npains of wakefulness. A vigil in the society of a charming woman is\nsurely not the worst of evils.\u201d\n\n\u201cA woman!\u201d repeated his interlocutor, as if wondering at the good\nfortune of the new arrival. \u201cThis is what they call ending the\npilgrimage and kissing the saint.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps it is some old flame of the Capital who follows him to Madrid\nto make his exile more endurable,\u201d added another of the circle.\n\n\u201cOh, no!\u201d exclaimed the captain, \u201cnothing of the sort. I swear to you,\non the word of a gentleman, I had never seen her before, nor had I\ndreamed of finding so gracious a hostess in so bad a hostelry. It is\naltogether what one might call a genuine adventure.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell it! tell it!\u201d chorused the officers who surrounded the captain,\nand as he proceeded so to do, all lent the most eager attention, while\nhe began his story thus:\n\n\u201cI was sleeping last night the sleep of a man who carries in his body\nthe effects of a thirteen-league ride, when, look you, in the best of my\nslumber I was startled wide-awake,--springing up and leaning on my\nelbows,--by a horrible uproar, such an uproar that it deafened me for an\ninstant and left my ears, a full minute after, humming as if a horse-fly\nwere singing on my cheek.\n\n\u201cAs you will have guessed, the cause of my alarm was the first stroke\nwhich I heard of that diabolical _campana gorda_, a sort of bronze\nchorister, which the canons of Toledo have placed in their cathedral for\nthe praiseworthy object of killing the weary with wrath.\n\n\u201cCursing between my teeth both bell and bell-ringer, I disposed myself,\nas soon as that strange and frightful noise had ceased, to take up anew\nthe thread of my broken dream, when there befell, to pique my\nimagination and challenge my senses, a thing of wonder. By the uncertain\nmoonlight which entered the church through the narrow Moorish window of\nthe chancel wall, I saw a woman kneeling at the altar.\u201d\n\nThe officers exchanged glances of mingled astonishment and incredulity;\nthe captain, without heeding the impression his narrative was making,\ncontinued as follows:\n\n\u201cIt could not enter into man\u2019s heart to conceive that nocturnal,\nphantasmal vision, vaguely outlined in the twilight of the chapel, like\nthose virgins painted in colored glass that you have sometimes seen,\nfrom afar off, stand out, white and luminous, across the shadowy\nstretch of the cathedrals.\n\n\u201cHer oval face, on which one saw stamped the seal, delicate and\nspiritual, of emaciation, her harmonious features full of a gentle,\nmelancholy sweetness, her intense pallor, the perfect lines of her\nslender figure, her reposeful, noble posture, her robe of flowing white,\nbrought to my memory the women of whom I used to dream when I was still\nlittle more than a child. Chaste, celestial images, illusive objects of\nthe wandering love of youth!\n\n\u201cI believed myself the sport of an hallucination and not withdrawing my\neyes from her for an instant, I scarcely dared breathe, fearing that a\nbreath might dissolve the enchantment.\n\n\u201cShe remained motionless.\n\n\u201cThe fancy crossed my mind, on seeing her so shining, so transparent,\nthat this was no creature of the earth, but a spirit, that, once more\nassuming for an instant the veil of human form, had descended in the\nmoonbeam, leaving in the air behind it the azure track which slanted\nfrom the high window to the foot of the opposite wall, breaking the deep\ngloom of that dusky, mysterious recess.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut--\u201d interrupted his former schoolmate, who, inclined at the outset\nto make fun of the story, had at last grown closely attentive--\u201chow came\nthat woman there? Did you not speak to her? Did she not explain to you\nher presence in that place?\u201d\n\n\u201cI decided not to address her, because I was sure that she would not\nanswer me, nor see me, nor hear me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas she deaf?\u201d\n\n\u201cWas she blind?\u201d\n\n\u201cWas she dumb?\u201d exclaimed simultaneously three or four of those who were\nlistening to the story.\n\n\u201cShe was all at once,\u201d finally declared the captain after a moment\u2019s\npause, \u201cfor she was---- marble.\u201d\n\nOn hearing this remarkable _d\u00e9nouement_ of so strange an adventure, the\nbystanders burst into a noisy peal of laughter, while one of them said\nto the narrator of this curious experience, who alone remained quiet and\nof grave deportment:\n\n\u201cWe will make a complete thing of it. As for this sort of ladies, I have\nmore than a thousand, a regular seraglio, in _San Juan de los Reyes_, a\nseraglio which from this time on I put quite at your service, since, it\nwould seem, a woman of stone is the same to you as a woman of flesh.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no!\u201d responded the captain, not nettled in the slightest by the\nlaughter of his companions. \u201cI am sure that they cannot be like mine.\nMine is a true Castilian dame of high degree, who by a miracle of\nsculpture appears not to have been buried in a sepulchre, but still,\nbody and soul, to kneel upon the lid of her own tomb, motionless, with\nhands joined in attitude of prayer, drowned in an ecstasy of mystic\nlove.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are so plausible that you will end by making us believe in the\nfable of Galatea.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor my part, I admit that I had always supposed it nonsense, but since\nlast night I begin to comprehend the passion of the Greek sculptor.\u201d\n\n\u201cConsidering the peculiar circumstances of your new lady, I presume you\nwould have no objection to presenting us. As for me, I vow that already\nI am dead with longing to behold this paragon. But--what the devil!--one\nwould say that you do not wish to introduce us. Ha, ha, ha! It would be\na joke indeed if we should find you jealous.\u201d\n\n\u201cJealous!\u201d the captain hastened to reply. \u201cJealous--of men, no; but yet\nsee to what lengths my madness reaches. Close beside the image of this\nwoman is a warrior, also of marble, an august figure, as lifelike as\nherself,--her husband, without doubt. Well, then! I am going to make a\nclean breast of it, jeer at my folly as you may,--if I had not feared\nbeing taken for a lunatic, I believe I should have broken him to pieces\na hundred times over.\u201d\n\nA fresh and yet more riotous outburst of laughter from the officers\ngreeted this original revelation on the part of the eccentric lover of\nthe marble lady.\n\n\u201cWe will take no refusal. We must see her,\u201d cried some.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, we must know if the object of such devotion is as unique as\nthe passion itself,\u201d added others.\n\n\u201cWhen shall we come together to take a drink in the church where you\nlodge?\u201d demanded the rest.\n\n\u201cWhenever you please; this very evening, if you like,\u201d replied the young\ncaptain, regaining his usual debonair expression, dispelled for an\ninstant by that flash of jealousy. \u201cBy the way, along with the baggage I\nhave brought as many as two dozen bottles of champagne, genuine\nchampagne, what was left over from a present given to our\nbrigadier-general, who, as you know, is a distant relative of mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cBravo! Bravo!\u201d shouted the officers with one voice, breaking into\ngleeful exclamations.\n\n\u201cWe will drink the wine of our native land!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we will sing one of Ronsard\u2019s songs!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we will talk of women, apropos of the lady of our host.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so--good-bye till evening!\u201d\n\n\u201cTill evening!\u201d\n\n\nIII.\n\nIt was now a good hour since the peaceful inhabitants of Toledo had\nsecured with key and bolt the massive doors of their ancient mansions;\nthe _campana gorda_ of the cathedral was ringing curfew, and from the\nsummit of the palace, now converted into barracks, was sounding the last\nbugle-call for silence, when ten or twelve officers, who had been\ngradually assembling in the Zocodover, took the road leading thence to\nthe monastery where the captain was lodged, impelled more by hope of\ndraining the promised bottles than by eagerness to make acquaintance\nwith the marvellous piece of sculpture.\n\nThe night had shut down dark and threatening; the sky was covered with\nleaden clouds; the wind, whistling along the imprisoning channels of the\nnarrow, tortuous streets, was shaking the dying flames of the shielded\nlamps before the shrines, or making the iron weather-vanes of the towers\nwhirl about with a shrill creaking.\n\nScarcely had the officers caught sight of the square where stood the\nmonastery which served as quarters for their new friend, than he, who\nwas impatiently looking out for their arrival, sallied forth to meet\nthem, and after the exchange of a few low-toned sentences, all together\nentered the church, within whose dim enclosure the faint gleam of a\nlantern was struggling at hopeless odds with the black and heavy\nshadows.\n\n\u201c\u2018Pon my honor!\u201d exclaimed one of the guests, peering about him. \u201cIf\nthis isn\u2019t the last place in the world for a revel!\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue enough!\u201d said another. \u201cYou bring us here to meet a lady, and\nscarcely can a man see his hand before his face.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd worst of all, it\u2019s so icy cold that we might as well be in\nSiberia,\u201d added a third, hugging the folds of his cloak about him.\n\n\u201cPatience, gentlemen, patience!\u201d interposed the host. \u201cA little patience\nwill set all to rights. Here, my lad!\u201d he continued, addressing one of\nhis men. \u201cHunt us up a bit of fuel and kindle a rousing bonfire in the\nchancel.\u201d\n\nThe orderly, obeying his captain\u2019s directions, commenced to rain\nswinging blows on the carven stalls of the choir, and after he had thus\ncollected a goodly supply of wood, which was heaped up at the foot of\nthe chancel steps, he took the lantern and proceeded to make an _auto de\nfe_ of those fragments carved in richest designs. Among them might be\nseen here a portion of a spiral column, there the effigy of a holy\nabbot, the torso of a woman, or the misshapen head of a griffin peeping\nthrough foliage.\n\nIn a few minutes, a great light which suddenly streamed out through all\nthe compass of the church announced to the officers that the hour for\nthe carousal had arrived.\n\nThe captain, who did the honors of his lodging with the same\npunctiliousness which he would have observed in his own house, turned to\nhis guests and said:\n\n\u201cWe will, if you please, pass to the refreshment room.\u201d\n\nHis comrades, affecting the utmost gravity, responded to the invitation\nwith absurdly profound bows and took their way to the chancel preceded\nby the lord of the revel, who, on reaching the stone steps, paused an\ninstant, and extending his hand in the direction of the tomb, said to\nthem with the most exquisite courtesy:\n\n\u201cI have the pleasure of presenting you to the lady of my dreams. I am\nsure you will grant that I have not exaggerated her beauty.\u201d\n\nThe officers turned their eyes toward the point which their friend\ndesignated, and exclamations of astonishment broke involuntarily from\nthe lips of all.\n\nIn the depths of a sepulchral arch lined with black marbles, they saw,\nin fact, kneeling before a prayer-stool, with folded palms and face\nturned toward the altar, the image of a woman so beautiful that never\ndid her equal come from sculptor\u2019s hands, nor could desire paint her in\nimagination more supremely lovely.\n\n\u201cIn truth, an angel!\u201d murmured one.\n\n\u201cA pity that she is marble!\u201d added another.\n\n\u201cWell might--illusion though it be--the neighborhood of such a woman\nsuffice to keep one from closing eye the whole night through.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you do not know who she is?\u201d others of the group, contemplating the\nstatue, asked of the captain, who stood smiling, satisfied with his\ntriumph.\n\n\u201cRecalling a little of the Latin which I learned in my boyhood, I have\nbeen able, at no small pains, to decipher the inscription on the stone,\u201d\nhe answered, \u201cand by what I have managed to make out, it is the tomb of\na Castilian noble, a famous warrior who fought under the Great Captain.\nHis name I have forgotten, but his wife, on whom you look, is called\nDo\u00f1a Elvira de Casta\u00f1eda, and by my hopes of salvation, if the copy\nresembles the original, this should be the most notable woman of her\ntime.\u201d\n\nAfter these brief explanations, the guests, who did not lose sight of\nthe principal object of the gathering, proceeded to uncork some of the\nbottles and, seating themselves around the bonfire, began to pass the\nwine from hand to hand.\n\nIn proportion as their libations became more copious and frequent, and\nthe fumes of the foaming champagne commenced to cloud their brains, the\nanimation, the uproar and the merriment of the young Frenchmen rose to\nsuch a pitch that some of them threw the broken necks of the empty\nbottles at the granite monks carved against the pillars, and others\ntrolled at the tops of their voices scandalous drinking-songs, while the\nrest burst into roars of laughter, clapped their hands in applause or\nquarrelled among themselves with angry words and oaths.\n\nThe captain sat drinking in silence, like a man distraught, without\nmoving his eyes from the statue of Do\u00f1a Elvira.\n\nIllumed by the ruddy splendor of the bonfire, and seen across the misty\nveil which wine had drawn before his vision, the marble image sometimes\nseemed to him to be changing into an actual woman; it seemed to him\nthat her lips parted, as if murmuring a prayer, that her breast heaved\nas if with stifled sobs, that her palms were pressed together with more\nenergy, and finally, that rosy color crept into her cheeks, as if she\nwere blushing before that sacrilegious and repugnant scene.\n\nThe officers, noting the gloomy silence of their comrade, roused him\nfrom the trance into which he had fallen, and thrusting a cup into his\nhands, exclaimed in noisy chorus:\n\n\u201cCome, give us a toast, you, the only man that has failed of it\nto-night!\u201d\n\nThe young host took the cup, rose and, lifting it on high, turned to\nface the statue of the warrior kneeling beside Do\u00f1a Elvira and said:\n\n\u201cI drink to the Emperor, and I drink to the success of his arms, thanks\nto which we have been able to penetrate even to the heart of Castile and\nto court, at his own tomb, the wife of a conqueror of Cer\u00f1iola.\u201d\n\nThe officers drank the toast with a storm of applause, and the captain,\nkeeping his balance with some difficulty, took a few steps toward the\nsepulchre.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he continued, always addressing, with the stupid smile of\nintoxication, the statue of the warrior. \u201cDon\u2019t suppose that I have a\ngrudge against you for being my rival. On the contrary, old lad, I\nadmire you for a patient husband, an example of meekness and long\nsuffering, and, for my part, I wish to be generous, too. You should be a\ntippler, since you are a soldier, and it shall not be said that I left\nyou to die of thirst in the sight of twenty empty bottles. Drink!\u201d\n\nAnd with these words he raised the cup to his lips and, after wetting\nthem with the liquor which it contained, flung the rest into the marble\nface, bursting into a boisterous peal of laughter to see how the wine\nsplashed down over the tomb from the carven beard of the motionless\nwarrior.\n\n\u201cCaptain,\u201d exclaimed at that point one of his comrades in a tone of\nraillery, \u201ctake heed what you do. Bear in mind that these jests with the\nstone people are apt to cost dear. Remember what happened to the Fifth\nHussars in the monastery of Poblet. The story goes that the warriors of\nthe cloister laid hand to their granite swords one night and gave plenty\nof occupation to those merry fellows who had amused themselves by\nadorning them with charcoal mustaches.\u201d\n\nThe young revellers received this report with roars of laughter, but the\ncaptain, heedless of their mirth, continued, his mind fixed ever on the\nsame idea.\n\n\u201cDo you think that I would have given him the wine, had I not known that\nhe would swallow at least as much as fell upon his mouth? Oh, no! I do\nnot believe like you that these statues are mere blocks of marble as\ninert to-day as when hewed from the quarry. Undoubtedly the artist, who\nis always a god, gives to his work a breath of life which is not\npowerful enough to make the figure move and walk, but which inspires it\nwith a strange, incomprehensible life, a life which I do not fully\nexplain to myself, but which I feel, especially when I am a little\ndrunk.\u201d\n\n\u201cMagnificent!\u201d exclaimed his comrades. \u201cDrink and continue!\u201d\n\nThe officer drank and, fixing his eyes upon the image of Do\u00f1a Elvira,\nwent on with mounting excitement:\n\n\u201cLook at her! Look at her! Do you not note those changing flushes of her\nsoft, transparent flesh? Does it not seem that beneath this delicate\nalabaster skin, azure-veined and tender, circulates a fluid of\nrose-colored light? Would you wish more life, more reality?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, but yes, by all means,\u201d said one of those who was listening. \u201cWe\nwould have her of flesh and bone.\u201d\n\n\u201cFlesh and bone! Misery and corruption!\u201d exclaimed the captain. \u201cI have\nfelt in the course of an orgy my lips burn, and my head. I have felt\nthat fire which runs boiling through the veins like the lava of a\nvolcano, that fire whose dim vapors trouble and confuse the brain and\nconjure up strange visions. Then the kiss of these material women burned\nme like a red-hot iron, and I thrust them from me with displeasure, with\nhorror and with loathing; for then, as now, I needed for my fevered\nforehead a breath of the sea-breeze, to drink ice and to kiss snow, snow\ntinted by mellow light, snow illumined by a golden ray of sunshine,--a\nwoman white, beautiful and cold, like this woman of stone who seems to\nallure me with her ethereal grace, to sway like a flame--who challenges\nme with parted lips, offering me a wealth of love. Oh, yes, a kiss! Only\na kiss of thine can calm the fire which is consuming me.\u201d\n\n\u201cCaptain!\u201d exclaimed some of the officers, on seeing him start toward\nthe statue as if beside himself, his gaze wild and his steps reeling.\n\u201cWhat mad foolery would you commit? Enough of jesting! Leave the dead in\npeace.\u201d\n\nThe young host did not even hear the warnings of his friends;\nstaggering, groping his way, he reached the tomb and approached the\nstatue of Do\u00f1a Elvira, but as he stretched out his arms to clasp it, a\ncry of horror resounded through the temple. With blood gushing from\neyes, mouth and nostrils, he had fallen prone, his face crushed in, at\nthe foot of the sepulchre.\n\nThe officers, hushed and terrified, dared not take one step forward to\nhis aid.\n\nAt the moment when their comrade strove to touch his burning lips to\nthose of Do\u00f1a Elvira, they had seen the marble warrior lift its hand\nand, with a frightful blow of the stone gauntlet, strike him down.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPIRITS\u2019 MOUNTAIN\n\n\nOn All Souls\u2019 Night I was awakened, I knew not at what hour, by the\ntolling of bells; their monotonous, unceasing sound brought to mind this\ntradition which I heard a short time ago in Soria.\n\nI tried to sleep again. Impossible! The imagination, once roused, is a\nhorse that runs wild and cannot be reined in. To pass the time, I\ndecided to write the story out, and so in fact I did.\n\nI had heard it in the very place where it originated and, as I wrote, I\nsometimes glanced behind me with sudden fear, when, smitten by the cold\nnight air, the glass of my balcony crackled.\n\nMake of it what you will,--here it goes loose, like the mounted horseman\nin a Spanish pack of cards.\n\n\nI.\n\n\u201cLeash the dogs! Blow the horns to call the hunters together, and let us\nreturn to the city. Night is at hand,--the Night of All Souls, and we\nare on the Spirits\u2019 Mountain.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo soon!\u201d\n\n\u201cWere it any day but this, I would not give up till I had made an end of\nthat pack of wolves which the snows of the Moncayo have driven from\ntheir dens; but to-day it is impossible. Very soon the Angelus will\nsound in the monastery of the Knights Templars, and the souls of the\ndead will commence to toll their bell in the chapel on the mountain.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that ruined chapel! Bah! Would you frighten me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, fair cousin; but you are not aware of all that happens hereabout,\nfor it is not yet a year since you came hither from a distant part of\nSpain. Rein in your mare; I will keep mine at the same pace and tell you\nthis story on the way.\u201d\n\nThe pages gathered together in merry, boisterous groups; the Counts of\nB\u00f3rges and Alcudiel mounted their noble steeds, and the whole company\nfollowed after the son and daughter of those great houses, Alonso and\nBeatriz, who rode at some little distance in advance of the company.\n\nAs they went, Alonso related in these words the promised tradition:\n\n\u201cThis mountain, which is now called the Spirits\u2019 Mountain, belonged to\nthe Knights Templars, whose monastery you see yonder on the river bank.\nThe Templars were both monks and warriors. After Soria had been wrested\nfrom the Moors, the King summoned the Templars here from foreign lands\nto defend the city on the side next to the bridge, thus giving deep\noffense to his Castilian nobles, who, as they had won Soria alone, would\nalone have been able to defend it.\n\n\u201cBetween the knights of the new and powerful Order and the nobles of the\ncity there fermented for some years an animosity which finally developed\ninto a deadly hatred. The Templars claimed for their own this mountain,\nwhere they reserved an abundance of game to satisfy their needs and\ncontribute to their pleasures; the nobles determined to organize a great\nhunt within the bounds notwithstanding the rigorous prohibitions of the\n_clergy with spurs_, as their enemies called them.\n\n\u201cThe news of the projected invasion spread fast, and nothing availed to\ncheck the rage for the hunt on the one side, and the determination to\nbreak it up on the other. The proposed expedition came off. The wild\nbeasts did not remember it; but it was never to be forgotten by the\nmany mothers mourning for their sons. That was not a hunting-trip, but a\nfrightful battle; the mountain was strewn with corpses, and the wolves,\nwhose extermination was the end in view, had a bloody feast. Finally the\nauthority of the King was brought to bear; the mountain, the accursed\ncause of so many bereavements, was declared abandoned, and the chapel of\nthe Templars, situated on this same wild steep, friends and enemies\nburied together in its cloister, began to fall into ruins.\n\n\u201cThey say that ever since, on All Souls\u2019 Night, the chapel bell is heard\ntolling all alone, and the spirits of the dead, wrapt in the tatters of\ntheir shrouds, run as in a fantastic chase through the bushes and\nbrambles. The deer trumpet in terror, wolves howl, snakes hiss horribly,\nand on the following morning there have been seen clearly marked in the\nsnow the prints of the fleshless feet of the skeletons. This is why we\ncall it in Soria the Spirits\u2019 Mountain, and this is why I wished to\nleave it before nightfall.\u201d\n\nAlonso\u2019s story was finished just as the two young people arrived at the\nend of the bridge which admits to the city from that side. There they\nwaited for the rest of the company to join them, and then the whole\ncavalcade was lost to sight in the dim and narrow streets of Soria.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe servants had just cleared the tables; the high Gothic fireplace of\nthe palace of the Counts of Alcudiel was shedding a vivid glow over the\ngroups of lords and ladies who were chatting in friendly fashion,\ngathered about the blaze; and the wind shook the leaded glass of the\nogive windows.\n\nTwo persons only seemed to hold aloof from the general\nconversation,--Beatriz and Alonso. Beatriz, absorbed in a vague revery,\nfollowed with her eyes the capricious dance of the flames. Alonso\nwatched the reflection of the fire sparkling in the blue eyes of\nBeatriz.\n\nBoth maintained for some time an unbroken silence.\n\nThe duennas were telling gruesome stories, appropriate to the Night of\nAll Souls,--stories in which ghosts and spectres played the principal\nr\u00f4les, and the church bells of Soria were tolling in the distance with a\nmonotonous and mournful sound.\n\n\u201cFair cousin,\u201d finally exclaimed Alonso, breaking the long silence\nbetween them. \u201cSoon we are to separate, perhaps forever. I know you do\nnot like the arid plains of Castile, its rough, soldier customs, its\nsimple, patriarchal ways. At various times I have heard you sigh,\nperhaps for some lover in your far-away demesne.\u201d\n\nBeatriz made a gesture of cold indifference; the whole character of the\nwoman was revealed in that disdainful contraction of her delicate lips.\n\n\u201cOr perhaps for the grandeur and gaiety of the French capital, where you\nhave lived hitherto,\u201d the young man hastened to add. \u201cIn one way or\nanother, I foresee that I shall lose you before long. When we part, I\nwould like to have you carry hence a remembrance of me. Do you recollect\nthe time when we went to church to give thanks to God for having granted\nyou that restoration to health which was your object in coming to this\nregion? The jewel that fastened the plume of my cap attracted your\nattention. How well it would look clasping a veil over your dark hair!\nIt has already been the adornment of a bride. My father gave it to my\nmother, and she wore it to the altar. Would you like it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not know how it may be in your part of the country,\u201d replied the\nbeauty, \u201cbut in mine to accept a gift is to incur an obligation. Only on\na holy day may one receive a present\n\n[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN PASS]\n\nfrom a kinsman,--though he may go to Rome without returning\nempty-handed.\u201d\n\nThe frigid tone in which Beatriz spoke these words troubled the youth\nfor a moment, but, clearing his brow, he replied sadly:\n\n\u201cI know it, cousin, but to-day is the festival of All Saints, and yours\namong them,--a holiday on which gifts are fitting. Will you accept\nmine?\u201d\n\nBeatriz slightly bit her lip and put out her hand for the jewel, without\na word.\n\nThe two again fell silent and again heard the quavering voices of the\nold women telling of witches and hobgoblins, the whistling wind which\nshook the ogive windows, and the mournful, monotonous tolling of the\nbells.\n\nAfter the lapse of some little time, the interrupted dialogue was thus\nrenewed:\n\n\u201cAnd before All Saints\u2019 Day ends, which is holy to my saint as well as\nto yours, so that you can, without compromising yourself, give me a\nkeepsake, will you not do so?\u201d pleaded Alonso, fixing his eyes on his\ncousin\u2019s, which flashed like lightning, gleaming with a diabolical\nthought.\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d she exclaimed, raising her hand to her right shoulder as\nthough seeking for something amid the folds of her wide velvet sleeve\nembroidered with gold. Then, with an innocent air of disappointment, she\nadded:\n\n\u201cDo you recollect the blue scarf I wore to-day to the hunt,--the scarf\nwhich you said, because of something about the meaning of its color, was\nthe emblem of your soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! it is lost! it is lost, and I was thinking of letting you have it\nfor a souvenir.\u201d\n\n\u201cLost! where?\u201d asked Alonso, rising from his seat with an indescribable\nexpression of mingled fear and hope.\n\n\u201cI do not know,--perhaps on the mountain.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the Spirits\u2019 Mountain!\u201d he murmured, paling and sinking back into\nhis seat. \u201cOn the Spirits\u2019 Mountain!\u201d\n\nThen he went on in a voice choked and broken:\n\n\u201cYou know, for you have heard it a thousand times, that I am called in\nthe city, in all Castile, the king of the hunters. Not having yet had a\nchance to try, like my ancestors, my strength in battle, I have brought\nto bear on this pastime, the image of war, all the energy of my youth,\nall the hereditary ardor of my race. The rugs your feet tread on are the\nspoils of the chase, the hides of the wild beasts I have killed with my\nown hand. I know their haunts and their habits; I have fought them by\nday and by night, on foot and on horseback, alone and with\nhunting-parties, and there is not a man will say that he has ever seen\nme shrink from danger. On any other night I would fly for that\nscarf,--fly as joyously as to a festival; but to-night, this one\nnight--why disguise it?--I am afraid. Do you hear? The bells are\ntolling, the Angelus has sounded in San Juan del Duero, the ghosts of\nthe mountain are now beginning to lift their yellowing skulls from amid\nthe brambles that cover their graves--the ghosts! the mere sight of them\nis enough to curdle with horror the blood of the bravest, turn his hair\nwhite, or sweep him away in the stormy whirl of their fantastic chase as\na leaf, unwitting whither, is carried by the wind.\u201d\n\nWhile the young man was speaking, an almost imperceptible smile curled\nthe lips of Beatriz, who, when he had ceased, exclaimed in an\nindifferent tone, while she was stirring the fire on the hearth, where\nthe wood blazed and snapped, throwing off sparks of a thousand colors:\n\n\u201cOh, by no means! What folly! To go to the mountain at this hour for\nsuch a trifle! On so dark a night, too, with ghosts abroad, and the road\nbeset by wolves!\u201d\n\nAs she spoke this closing phrase, she emphasized it with so peculiar an\nintonation that Alonso could not fail to understand all her bitter\nirony. As moved by a spring, he leapt to his feet, passed his hand over\nhis brow as if to dispel the fear which was in his brain, not in his\nbreast, and with firm voice he said, addressing his beautiful cousin,\nwho was still leaning over the hearth, amusing herself by stirring the\nfire:\n\n\u201cFarewell, Beatriz, farewell. If I return, it will be soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlonso, Alonso!\u201d she called, turning quickly, but now that she\nwished--or made show of wishing--to detain him, the youth had gone.\n\nIn a few moments she heard the beat of a horse\u2019s hoofs departing at a\ngallop. The beauty, with a radiant expression of satisfied pride\nflushing her cheeks, listened attentively to the sound which grew\nfainter and fainter until it died away.\n\nThe old dames, meanwhile, were continuing their tales of ghostly\napparitions; the wind was shrilling against the balcony glass, and far\naway the bells of the city tolled on.\n\n\nIII\n\nAn hour had passed, two, three; midnight would soon be striking, and\nBeatriz withdrew to her chamber. Alonso had not returned; he had not\nreturned, though less than an hour would have sufficed for his errand.\n\n\u201cHe must have been afraid!\u201d exclaimed the girl, closing her prayer-book\nand turning toward her bed after a vain attempt to murmur some of the\nprayers that the church offers for the dead on the Day of All Souls.\n\nAfter putting out her light and drawing the double silken curtains, she\nfell asleep; but her sleep was restless, light, uneasy.\n\nThe Postigo clock struck midnight. Beatriz heard through her dreams the\nslow, dull, melancholy strokes, and half opened her eyes. She thought\nshe had heard, at the same time, her name spoken, but far, far away, and\nin a faint, suffering voice. The wind groaned outside her window.\n\n\u201cIt must have been the wind,\u201d she said, and pressing her hand above her\nheart, she strove to calm herself. But her heart beat ever more wildly.\nThe larchwood doors of the chamber grated on their hinges with a sharp\ncreak, prolonged and strident.\n\nFirst these doors, then the more distant ones,--all the doors which led\nto her room opened, one after another, some with a heavy, groaning\nsound, some with a long wail that set the nerves on edge. Then silence,\na silence full of strange noises, the silence of midnight, with a\nmonotonous murmur of far-off water, the distant barking of dogs,\nconfused voices, unintelligible words, echoes of footsteps going and\ncoming, the rustle of trailing garments, half-suppressed sighs, labored\nbreathing almost felt upon the face, involuntary shudders that announce\nthe presence of something not seen, though its approach is felt in the\ndarkness.\n\nBeatriz, stiffening with fear, yet trembling, thrust her head out from\nthe bed-curtains and listened a moment. She heard a thousand diverse\nnoises; she passed her hand across her brow and listened again; nothing,\nsilence.\n\nShe saw, with that dilation of the pupils common in nervous crises, dim\nshapes moving hither and thither all about the room, but when she fixed\nher gaze on any one point, there was nothing but darkness and\nimpenetrable shadows.\n\n\u201cBah!\u201d she exclaimed, again resting her beautiful head upon her blue\nsatin pillow, \u201cam I as timid as these poor kinsfolk of mine, whose\nhearts thump with terror under their armor when they hear a\nghost-story?\u201d\n\nAnd closing her eyes she tried to sleep,--but her effort to compose\nherself was in vain. Soon she started up again, paler, more uneasy,\nmore terrified. This time it was no illusion; the brocade hangings of\nthe door had rustled as they were pushed to either side, and slow\nfootsteps were heard upon the carpet; the sound of those footsteps was\nmuffled, almost imperceptible, but continuous, and she heard, keeping\nmeasure with them, a creaking as of dry wood or bones. And the footfalls\ncame nearer, nearer; the prayer-stool by the side of her bed moved.\nBeatriz uttered a sharp cry, and burying herself under the bedclothes,\nhid her head and held her breath.\n\nThe wind beat against the balcony glass; the water of the far-off\nfountain was falling, falling, with a monotonous, unceasing sound; the\nbarking of the dogs was borne upon the gusts, and the church bells in\nthe city of Soria, some near, some remote, tolled sadly for the souls of\nthe dead.\n\nSo passed an hour, two, the night, a century, for that night seemed to\nBeatrix eternal. At last the day began to break; putting fear from her,\nshe half opened her eyes to the first silver rays. How beautiful, after\na night of wakefulness and terrors, is the clear white light of dawn!\nShe parted the silken curtains of her bed and was ready to laugh at her\npast alarms, when suddenly a cold sweat covered her body, her eyes\nseemed starting from their sockets, and a deadly pallor overspread her\ncheeks; for on her prayer-stool she had seen, torn and blood-stained,\nthe blue scarf she lost on the mountain, the blue scarf Alonso went to\nseek.\n\nWhen her attendants rushed in, aghast, to tell her of the death of the\nheir of Alcudiel, whose body, partly devoured by wolves, had been found\nthat morning among the brambles on the Spirits\u2019 Mountain, they\ndiscovered her motionless, convulsed, clinging with both hands to one of\nthe ebony bedposts, her eyes staring, her mouth open, the lips white,\nher limbs rigid,--dead, dead of fright!\n\n\nIV.\n\nThey say that, some time after this event, a hunter who, having lost his\nway, had been obliged to pass the Night of the Dead on the Spirits\u2019\nMountain, and who in the morning, before he died, was able to relate\nwhat he had seen, told a tale of horror. Among other awful sights, he\navowed he beheld the skeletons of the ancient Knights Templars and of\nthe nobles of Soria, buried in the cloister of the chapel, rise at the\nhour of the Angelus with a horrible rattle and, mounted on their bony\nsteeds, chase, as a wild beast, a beautiful woman, pallid, with\nstreaming hair, who, uttering cries of terror and anguish, had been\nwandering, with bare and bloody feet, about the tomb of Alonso.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CAVE OF THE MOOR\u2019S DAUGHTER\n\n\nI.\n\nOpposite the Baths of Fitero, on a rocky, precipitous eminence, at whose\nbase flows the river Alhama, there may be seen to this day the abandoned\nruins of a Moorish castle celebrated in the glorious memories of the\nReconquest as having been the theatre of great and famous exploits, as\nwell on the part of the defenders as of those who valiantly nailed to\nits parapets the standard of the Cross.\n\nOf the walls there remain only some scattered ruins; the stones of the\nwatch-tower have fallen one above another into the moat, filling it to\nthe top; in the court-of-arms grow briers and patches of yellow mustard;\nin whatever direction you look, you see only broken arches, blackened\nand crumbling blocks of stone; here a section of the barbican in whose\nfissures springs the ivy, there a round tower, standing yet, as by a\nmiracle; further on, pillars of cement with the iron rings which\nsupported the drawbridge.\n\nDuring my stay at the Baths, partly for exercise, which I was assured\nwould be conducive to my health, and partly from curiosity, I strolled\nevery afternoon along the rough path that leads to the ruins of the Arab\nfortress. There I passed hours and hours, closely scanning the ground in\nthe hope of discovering some fragments of armor, beating the walls to\nfind out whether they were hollow and might be the hiding place of\ntreasure, and investigating all the nooks and crannies with the idea of\nhitting upon the entrance to some of those underground cells which are\nbelieved to exist in all Moorish castles.\n\nMy diligent search was, after all, a fruitless one.\n\nBut yet, one afternoon, when I had quite despaired of discovering\nanything new and curious on the rocky height crowned by the castle and\nhad given up the climb, limiting my walk to the banks of the river which\nflows by its foot, I saw, as I walked along by the stream, a sort of\ngaping hole in the living rock, half hidden by thickly-leaved bushes.\nNot without a little tremor, I parted the branches covering the entrance\nto what seemed a natural cave, but what I perceived, after advancing a\nfew steps, was a subterranean vault narrowing to the mouth. Not being\nable to penetrate to the end, which was lost in darkness, I confined\nmyself to observing attentively the peculiarities of the arch and of the\npavement that appeared to me to rise in great stairs toward the height\non which stood the castle I have mentioned, and in whose ruins I then\nremembered having seen a closed-up trap door. Doubtless I had discovered\none of those secret passages so common in the fortifications of that\nepoch, serving for covert sallies, or for bringing, in state of siege,\nwater from the river which flows hard by.\n\nThat I might be more sure of the truth of my inferences, after I had\ncome out from the cave by the same way in which I had entered, I fell\ninto conversation with a workman who was pruning some vines in that\nrough region and whom I accosted under pretence of asking a light for my\ncigarette.\n\nWe talked of various matters: the medicinal properties of the waters of\nFitero; the last harvest and the next; the women of Navarre and the\ncultivation of vines; indeed, we talked of everything which occurred to\nthe sociable body before we spoke of the cave, the object of my\ncuriosity.\n\nWhen, at last, the conversation had reached this point, I asked him if\nhe knew of any one who had gone through it, and seen the other end.\n\n\u201cGone through the cave of the Moor\u2019s Daughter!\u201d he\n\n[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN GROTTO]\n\nrepeated, astonished at hearing such a question. \u201cWho would dare? Do you\nnot know that from this cave there comes out, every night, _a ghost_?\u201d\n\n\u201cA ghost!\u201d I exclaimed, smiling. \u201cWhose ghost?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe ghost of the daughter of a Moorish chief, she who yet wanders\nmourning about these places and is seen every night coming out of this\ncave, robed in white, and filling at the river a water-jar.\u201d\n\nThrough this good fellow I learned that there was a tradition clinging\nto this Arab castle and the vault which I believed to communicate with\nit. And as I am a most willing hearer of all these legends, especially\nfrom the lips of the neighbor-folk, I begged him to relate it to me, and\nso he did, almost in the very words in which I in turn am going to\nrelate it to my readers.\n\n\nII.\n\nWhen the castle, of which there remain to-day only a few shapeless\nruins, was still held by the Moorish kings, and its towers, not one\nstone now left upon another, commanded from their lofty site all that\nmost fertile valley watered by the river Alhama, there was fought near\nthe town of Fitero a hotly contested battle in which a famous Christian\nknight, as worthy of renown for his piety as for his valor, fell,\nwounded, into the hands of the Arabs.\n\nTaken to the fortress and loaded with irons by his enemies, he was for\nsome days in the depths of a dungeon struggling between life and death,\nuntil, healed as if miraculously of his wounds, he was redeemed by his\nkindred with a ransom of gold.\n\nThe captive returned to his home,--returned to clasp to his breast those\nwho had given him being. His brothers-in-arms and his men-of-war were\noverjoyed to see him, supposing that he would sound the call to new\ncombat, but the soul of the knight had become possessed by a deep\nmelancholy, and neither the endearments of parental love nor the\nassiduities of friendship could dissipate his strange gloom.\n\nDuring his imprisonment he had managed to see the daughter of the\nMoorish chief, rumors of whose beauty had already reached his ears. But\nwhen he beheld her, he found her so superior to the idea he had formed\nof her that he could not resist the fascination of her charms and fell\ndesperately in love with one who could never be his bride.\n\nMonths and months were spent by the knight in devising the most daring,\nmost absurd plans; now he would imagine some way of breaking the\nbarriers that separated him from that woman; again, he would make the\nutmost efforts to forget her; to-day he would decide on one course of\naction and to-morrow he would resolve on another absolutely different.\nAt last, one morning, he called together his brothers and\ncompanions-in-arms, summoned his men-of-war, and after having made, with\nthe greatest secrecy, all necessary preparations, fell suddenly upon the\nfortress which sheltered the beautiful being who was the object of his\ninsensate love.\n\nOn setting out on this expedition, all believed that their commander was\nmoved only by eagerness to avenge himself for the sufferings he had\nendured loaded with irons in the dungeon depth, but after the fortress\nwas taken, the true cause of that reckless enterprise, in which so many\ngood Christians had perished to contribute to the satisfaction of an\nunworthy passion, was hid from none.\n\nThe knight, intoxicated with the love which he had at last succeeded in\nkindling in the breast of the beautiful Moorish girl, gave no heed to\nthe counsels of his friends, and was deaf to the murmurs and complaints\nof his soldiers. One and all were clamoring to go out as soon as\npossible from those walls, upon which it was natural that the Arabs,\nrecovered from the panic of the surprise, would fall anew.\n\nAnd this, in fact, was what took place. The Moorish chief called\ntogether the Arabs from all about; and, one morning, the look-out who\nwas stationed in the watch-tower of the keep went down to announce to\nthe infatuated lovers that over all the mountain range which was\ndiscernible from that summit, such a cloud of warriors was descending\nthat he was convinced all Mohammedanism was going to fall upon the\ncastle.\n\nThe Moor\u2019s daughter, hearing this, stood still, pale as death; the\nknight shouted for his arms, and everything was put in motion in the\nfortress. The soldiers rushed out tumultuously from their quarters; the\ncaptains began to give orders; the portcullis was lowered; the\ndrawbridge was raised, and the battlements were manned with archers.\n\nAfter some hours, the assault began.\n\nThe castle might well be called impregnable. Only by surprise, as the\nChristians had taken it, could it be overcome. So its defenders resisted\none, two, and even ten onsets.\n\nThe Moors, seeing the uselessness of their efforts, contented themselves\nwith closely surrounding the castle, that they might bring its defenders\nto capitulation through famine.\n\nHunger began, indeed, to make frightful ravages among the Christians,\nbut, knowing that once the castle was surrendered, the price of the life\nof its defenders would be the head of their leader, no one would betray\nhim, and the very soldiers who had reprobated his conduct swore to\nperish in his defence.\n\nThe Moors, waxing impatient, resolved to make a fresh assault in the\nmiddle of the night. The attack was furious; the defence, desperate; the\nencounter, horrible. During the combat, the Moorish chief, his forehead\ncleft by an axe, fell into the moat from the top of the wall to which he\nhad succeeded in climbing by the aid of a scaling ladder.\nSimultaneously the knight received a mortal stroke in the breach of the\nbarbican where men were fighting hand to hand in the darkness.\n\nThe Christians began to give way and fell back. At this point, the\nMoorish girl bent over her lover, who lay in deathlike swoon on the\nground and, taking him in her arms, with a strength born of desperation\nand the sense of peril, she dragged him to the castle court. There she\ntouched a spring and through a passage disclosed by a stone, which rose\nas if supernaturally moved, she disappeared with her precious burden and\nbegan to descend until she reached the bottom of the vault.\n\n\nIII.\n\nWhen the knight recovered consciousness, he cast a wandering glance\nabout him, crying: \u201cI thirst! I die! I burn!\u201d And in his delirium,\nprecursor of death, from his dry lips, through which whistled the\ndifficult breath, came only these words of agony: \u201cI thirst! I burn!\nWater! Water!\u201d\n\nThe Moorish girl knew that there was an opening from that vault to the\nvalley through which the river flows. The valley and all the heights\nwhich overlook it were full of Moslem soldiers, who, the fortress now\nsurrendered, were vainly seeking everywhere the knight and his beloved\nto satiate on them their thirst for destruction; yet she did not\nhesitate an instant, but taking the helmet of the dying man, she slipped\nlike a shadow through the thicket which covered the mouth of the cave\nand went down to the river bank.\n\nAlready she had dipped up the water and was rising to return to the side\nof her lover, when an arrow hissed and a cry resounded.\n\nTwo Arab archers who were on watch near the fortress had drawn their\nbows in the direction in which they heard the foliage rustle.\n\nThe Moor\u2019s daughter, mortally wounded, yet succeeded in dragging herself\nto the entrance of the vault and down into its depths where she joined\nthe knight. He, on seeing her bathed with blood and at the point of\ndeath, recovered his reason and, realizing the enormity of the sin which\ndemanded so fearful an expiation, raised his eyes to heaven, took the\nwater which his beloved offered him and, without lifting it to his lips,\nasked the Moorish girl: \u201cWould you be a Christian? Would you die in my\nfaith and, if I am saved, be saved with me?\u201d The Moor\u2019s daughter, who\nhad fallen to the ground, faint with loss of blood, made a slight\nmovement of her head, and upon it the knight poured the baptismal water,\ninvoking the name of the Almighty.\n\nThe next day the soldier who had shot the arrow saw a trace of blood on\nthe river bank and, following it, went into the cave where he found the\ndead bodies of the cavalier and his beloved, who, ever since, come out\nat night to wander through these parts.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GNOME\n\n\nThe young girls of the village were returning from the fountain with\ntheir water-jars on their heads; they were returning with song and\nlaughter, a merry confusion of sound comparable only to the gleeful\ntwitter of a flock of swallows when, thick as hail, they circle around\nthe weather-vane of a belfry.\n\nJust in front of the church porch, seated at the foot of a juniper tree,\nwas Uncle Gregorio. Uncle Gregorio was the patriarch of the village; he\nwas nearly ninety years old, with white hair, smiling lips, roguish eyes\nand trembling hands. In childhood he had been a shepherd; in his young\nmanhood, a soldier; then he tilled a little piece of fruitful land\ninherited from his parents, until at last his strength was spent and he\nsat tranquilly awaiting death which he neither dreaded nor longed for.\nNobody retailed a bit of gossip more spicily than he, nor knew more\nmarvellous tales, nor could bring so neatly to bear an old refrain,\nproverb or adage.\n\nThe girls, on seeing him, quickened their steps, eager for his talk, and\nwhen they were in the porch they all began to tease him for a story to\npass away the time still left them before nightfall--not much, for the\nsetting sun was slanting his rays across the earth, and the shadows of\nthe mountains grew larger moment by moment all along the plain.\n\nUncle Gregorio smiled as he listened to the pleading of the lasses, who,\nhaving once coaxed from him a promise to tell them something, let down\ntheir water-jars upon the ground, and sitting all about him, made a\ncircle with the patriarch in the centre; then he began to talk to them\nafter this fashion:\n\n\u201cI will not tell you a story, for though several come into my mind this\nminute, they have to do with such weighty matters that the attention of\na group of giddypates, like you, would never hold out to the end;\nbesides, with the afternoon so nearly gone, I would not have time to\ntell them through. So I will give you instead a piece of good counsel.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood counsel!\u201d exclaimed the girls with undisguised vexation. \u201cBah! it\nisn\u2019t to hear good counsel that we are stopping here; when we have need\nof that, his Reverence the priest will give it to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut perhaps,\u201d went on the old man with his habitual smile, speaking in\nhis broken, tremulous voice, \u201chis Reverence the priest will not know how\nto give you, this once, such timely advice as Uncle Gregorio; for the\npriest, busy with his liturgies and litanies, will not have noticed, as\nI have noticed, that every day you go earlier to the fountain and come\nback later.\u201d\n\nThe girls looked at one another with hardly perceptible smiles of\nderision, while some of those who were placed behind Uncle Gregorio\ntouched finger to forehead, accompanying the action with a significant\ngesture.\n\n\u201cAnd what harm do you find in our lingering at the fountain to chat a\nminute with our friends and neighbors?\u201d asked one of them. \u201cDo slanders,\nperhaps, go about the village because the lads step out on to the road\nfor a pleasant word or two, or come offering to carry our water-jars\ntill we are in sight of the houses?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, people talk,\u201d replied the old man to the girl who had asked him the\nquestion for them all. \u201cThe old dames of the village murmur that to-day\nthe girls resort for fun and frolic to a spot whither they used to go\nswiftly and in fear to draw the water, since only there can water be\nhad; and I find it much amiss that you are losing little by little the\ndread which the vicinity of the fountain inspires in all your\nelders,--for so it might come to pass that some time the night should\novertake you there.\u201d\n\nUncle Gregorio spoke these last words in a tone so full of mystery that\nthe lasses opened wide their frightened eyes to look at him, and with\nblended curiosity and mischief, again pressed their questions:\n\n\u201cThe night! But what goes on in that place by night that you should\nscare us so and throw out such dark and dreadful hints of what might\nbefall? Do you think the wolves will eat us?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the Moncayo is covered with snow, the wolves, driven from their\ndens, come down in packs and range over its slope; more than once we\nhave heard them howling in horrible concert, not only in the\nneighborhood of the fountain, but in the very streets of the village;\nyet the wolves are not the most terrible tenants of the Moncayo; in its\ndeep and dark caverns, on its wild and lonely summits, in its hollow\nheart there live certain diabolical spirits that, during the night, pour\ndown its cascades in swarms and people the empty spaces, thronging like\nants upon the plain, leaping from rock to rock, sporting in the waters\nand swinging on the bare boughs of the trees. It is these spirits that\ncry from the clefts of the crags, that roll up and push along those\nimmense snowballs which come rolling down from the lofty peaks and sweep\naway and crush whatever they find in their path,--theirs are the voices\ncalling in the hail at our windows on stormy nights,--theirs the forms\nthat flit like thin, blue flames over the marshes. Among these\nspirits--who, driven from the lowlands by the sacred services and\nexorcisms of the Church, have taken refuge on the inaccessible crests of\nthe mountains,--are those of diverse natures, that on appearing to our\neyes clothe themselves in\n\n[Illustration: GIRLS AT THE FOUNTAIN]\n\nvaried forms. Yet the most dangerous, those who with sweet words win\ntheir way into the hearts of maidens and dazzle them with magnificent\npromises, are the gnomes. The gnomes live in the inner recesses of the\nmountains; they know their subterranean roads and, eternal guardians of\nthe treasures hidden in the heart of the hills, they keep watch day and\nnight over the veins of metal and the precious stones. Do you see--\u201d\ncontinued the old man, pointing with the stick which served him for a\nprop to the summit of the Moncayo, that rose at his right, looming dark\nand gigantic against the misted, violet sky of twilight--\u201cdo you see\nthat mighty mass still crowned with snow? In its deep cavities these\ndiabolical spirits have their dwellings. The palace they inhabit is\nterrible and glorious to see. Many years ago a shepherd, following some\nstray of his flock, penetrated into the mouth of one of those caves\nwhose entrances are covered by thick growths of bushes and whose outlets\nno man has ever seen. When he came back to the village, he was pale as\ndeath; he had surprised the secret of the gnomes; he had breathed their\npoisonous atmosphere, and he paid for his rashness with his life; but\nbefore he died he related marvellous things. Going on along that cavern,\nhe had come at last to vast subterranean galleries lighted by a fitful,\nfantastic splendor shed from the phosphorescence in the rocks, which\nthere were like great boulders of quartz crystallized into a thousand\nstrange, fantastic forms. The floor, the vaulted ceiling and the walls\nof those immense halls, the work of nature, seemed variegated like the\nrichest marbles; but the veins which crossed them were of gold and\nsilver, and among those shining veins, as if incrusted in the rock, were\nseen jewels, a multitude of precious stones of all colors and sizes.\nThere were jacinths and emeralds in heaps, and diamonds and rubies, and\nsapphires and--how should I know?--many other gems unrecognized--more\nthan he could name but all so great and beautiful that his eyes dazzled\nat the sight. No noise of the outer world reached the depths of that\nweird cavern; the only perceptible sounds were, at intervals, the\nprolonged and pitiful groans of the air which blew through that\nenchanted labyrinth, a vague roar of subterranean fire furious in its\nprison, and murmurs of running water which flowed on not knowing whither\nthey went. The shepherd, alone and lost in that immensity, wandered I\nknow not how many hours without finding any outlet, until at last he\nchanced upon the source of a spring whose murmur he had heard. This\nbroke from the ground like a miraculous fountain, a leap of foam-crowned\nwater that fell in an exquisite cascade, singing a silver song as it\nslipped away through the crannies of the rocks. About him grew plants\nthat he had never seen, some with wide, thick leaves, and others\ndelicate and long like floating ribbons. Half hidden in that humid\nfoliage were running about a number of extraordinary creatures, some of\nthem manlike, some reptilian, or both at once, changing shape\ncontinually, at one moment appearing like human beings, deformed and\ntiny, the next like gleaming salamanders or fugitive flames that danced\nin circles above the tip of the fountain-jet. There, darting in all\ndirections, running across the floor in form of repugnant, hunchbacked\ndwarfs, scrambling up the walls, wriggling along, reptile-shaped, in\ntheir slime, dancing like Will-o-the-wisps on the pool of water, went\nthe gnomes, the lords of those recesses, counting over and shifting from\nplace to place their fabulous riches. They know where misers store those\ntreasures which, afterwards, the heirs seek in vain; they know the spot\nwhere the Moors, before their flight, hid their jewels; and the\nornaments which are lost, the money that is missing, everything that has\nvalue and disappears, they search for, find and steal, to hide in their\ncaves, for they know how to go to and fro through all the world by\nsecret, unimagined paths beneath the earth. So there they were keeping\nstored up in heaps all manner of rare and precious things. There were\njewels of inestimable worth; chains and necklaces of pearls and\nexquisite gems; golden jars of classic form, full of rubies; chiseled\ncups, armor richly wrought, coins with images and superscriptions that\nit is no longer possible to recognize or decipher; treasures, in short,\nso fabulous and limitless that scarcely may imagination picture them.\nAnd all glittered together, flashing out such vivid sparks of light and\ncolor that it seemed as if the whole hoard were on fire, quivering and\nwavering. At least, the shepherd said that so it had seemed to him.\u201d At\nthis point the old patriarch paused a moment. The girls, who in the\nbeginning had hearkened to Uncle Gregorio\u2019s story with a mocking smile,\nnow maintained unbroken silence, hoping that he would go on,--waiting\nwith frightened eyes, with lips slightly parted, and with curiosity and\ninterest depicted on their faces. One of them finally broke the hush,\nand unable to control herself, exclaimed, fascinated with the account of\nthe fabulous riches which had met the shepherd\u2019s view:\n\n\u201cAnd what then? Did he take away nothing out of all that?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d replied Uncle Gregorio.\n\n\u201cWhat a silly!\u201d the girls exclaimed in concert.\n\n\u201cHeaven helped him in that moment of peril,\u201d continued the old man, \u201cfor\nat the very instant when avarice, the ruling passion, began to dispel\nhis fear and, bewitched by the sight of those jewels, one alone of which\nwould have made him wealthy, the shepherd was about to possess himself\nof some small share of that treasure, he says he heard--listen and\nmarvel--clear and distinct in those profound abodes,--despite the shouts\nof laughter and harsh voices of the gnomes, the roar of the subterranean\nfire, the murmur of running water and the laments of the imprisoned\nair, he heard, I say, as if he had been at the foot of the hill where it\nstands, the pealing of the bell in the hermitage of Our Lady of the\nMoncayo.\n\n\u201cOn hearing the bell, which was ringing the _Ave Maria_, the shepherd\nfell to his knees, calling on the Mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ; and\ninstantly, without knowing the means nor the way, he found himself on\nthe outside of the mountain, near the road which leads to the village,\nthrown out on a footpath and overwhelmed by a great bewilderment as if\nhe had just been startled out of a dream.\n\n\u201cSince then everybody has understood why our village fountain sometimes\nhas in its waters a glint as of very fine gold-dust; and when night\nfalls, vague words are heard in its murmur, flattering words with which\nthe gnomes, that defile it from its source, try to entice the foolhardy\nwho lend them ear, promising them riches and treasures that are bound to\nbe the destruction of their souls.\u201d\n\nWhen Uncle Gregorio had reached this point in his relation, night had\nfallen and the church bell commenced to call to prayer. The girls\ncrossed themselves devoutly, repeating in low voices an _Ave Maria_, and\nafter bidding good-night to Uncle Gregorio, who again counselled them\nnot to tarry at the fountain, each picked up her water-jar and all went\nforth, silent and musing, from the churchyard. They were already far\nfrom the spot where they had found the old man, and had, indeed, reached\nthe central square of the village whence they were to go their several\nways, before the more resolute and decided of them all broke out with\nthe question:\n\n\u201cDo you girls believe any of that nonsense Uncle Gregorio has been\ntelling us?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot I,\u201d said one.\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d exclaimed another.\n\n\u201cNor I! nor I!\u201d chimed in the rest, laughing at their momentary\ncredulity.\n\nThe group of lasses melted away, each taking her course toward one or\nanother side of the square. Last of all, when the others had disappeared\ndown the better streets that led out from this market-place, two girls,\nthe only ones who had not opened their lips to make fun of Uncle\nGregorio\u2019s veracity, but who, still musing on the marvellous tale,\nseemed absorbed in their own meditations, went away together, with the\nslow step natural to people deep in thought, by a dismal, narrow,\ncrooked alley.\n\nOf those two girls, the elder, who seemed to be some twenty years old,\nwas called Marta; and the younger, who had not yet finished her\nsixteenth year, Magdalena.\n\nAs long as the walk lasted, both kept complete silence; but when they\nreached the threshold of their home and had set down their water-jars on\nthe stone bench by the door, Marta said to Magdalena: \u201cAnd do you\nbelieve in the marvels of the Moncayo and the spirits of the fountain?\u201d\n\u201cYes,\u201d answered Magdalena simply, \u201cI believe it all. But you, perhaps,\nhave doubts?\u201d \u201cOh, no!\u201d Marta hastily interrupted. \u201cI, too, believe\neverything, everything--that I wish to believe.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\nMarta and Magdalena were sisters. Orphans from early childhood, they\nwere living wretchedly under the protection of a kinswoman of their\nmother,--a kinswoman who had taken them in for charity and who at every\nstep made them feel, by her taunting and humiliating words, the weight\nof their obligation. Everything would seem to tend toward tightening the\nknot of love between those two sister souls,--not merely the bond of\nblood, but those of poverty and suffering, and yet there existed between\nMarta and Magdalena a mute rivalry, a secret antipathy explicable only\nby a study of their characters, as utterly contrasted as were their\nphysical types.\n\nMarta was overbearing, strong in her passions and of a rough directness\nin the expression of her feelings; she did not understand either\nlaughter or tears, and so had never wept nor laughed. Magdalena, on the\nother hand, was gentle, affectionate, kind, and more than once had been\nseen to laugh and weep together, as children do.\n\nMarta\u2019s eyes were blacker than night and from under her dark lashes\nthere sometimes seemed to leap fiery sparks as from a burning coal.\n\nThe blue eyes of Magdalena appeared to swim in liquid light behind the\ngolden curve of her blond lashes. And everything in them was in keeping\nwith the different expression of their eyes. Marta, thin, pale, tall,\nstiff of movement, her dark, crisp hair shading her brow and falling\nupon her shoulders like a velvet mantle, formed a singular contrast to\nMagdalena, white and pink, _petite_, with the rounded face and figure of\nbabyhood, and with golden tresses encircling her temples like the gilded\nhalo about the head of an angel.\n\nDespite the inexplicable repulsion which each felt for the other, the\ntwo sisters had lived up to this time on terms of indifference that\nmight have been mistaken for peace and affection; there had been no\ncaresses to quarrel over, nor partialities to envy; equal in misfortune\nand affliction, Marta, withdrawn into herself, had borne her troubles in\na proud, self-centered silence; and Magdalena, finding no response in\nher sister\u2019s heart, would weep alone when the tears involuntarily rushed\ninto her eyes.\n\nThey had not a sentiment in common; they never confided to one another\ntheir joys and griefs, and yet the only secret which each had striven to\nhide in the depths of her soul had been divined by the other with the\nmarvelous instinct of love and jealousy. Marta and Magdalena had in fact\nset their hearts on one and the same man.\n\nThe passion of the one was a stubborn desire, born of a wilful and\nindomitable character; in the other, love was manifest in that vague,\nspontaneous tenderness of youth, which, needing an object on which to\nspend itself, takes the first that comes. Both guarded the secret of\ntheir love, for the man who had inspired it would perchance have made\nmock of a devotion which could be interpreted as an absurd ambition in\npenniless girls of lowly birth. Both, despite the distance which\nseparated them from their idol, cherished a faint hope of winning him.\n\nHard by the village, and above a height which dominated the country\nround about, there was an ancient castle abandoned by its owners. The\nold women, in their evening gossips, would relate a marvellous story\nabout its founders. They told how the King of Aragon, finding himself at\nwar with his enemies, his resources exhausted, forsaken by his allies\nand on the point of losing the throne, was sought out one day by a\nshepherdess of those parts, who, after revealing to him the existence of\ncertain subterranean passages by means of which he could go through the\nMoncayo without being perceived by his enemies, gave him a treasure in\nfine pearls, precious stones of the richest, and bars of gold and\nsilver; with these the king paid his troops, raised a mighty army and,\nmarching beneath the earth one whole night long, fell the next day upon\nhis adversaries and routed them, establishing the crown securely on his\nhead.\n\nAfter he had won so distinguished a victory, the story goes that the\nking said to the shepherdess: \u201cAsk of me what thou wilt, and even though\nit be the half of my kingdom, I swear I will give it thee on the\ninstant.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish no more than to go back to the keeping of my flock,\u201d replied\nthe shepherdess. \u201cThou shalt keep only my frontiers,\u201d rejoined the king,\nand he gave her lordship over all the boundary, and bade her build a\nstronghold in the town nearest the borders of Castile; here dwelt the\nshepherdess, married to one of the king\u2019s favorites, a husband noble,\ngallant, valiant and, as well, lord over many fortresses and many fiefs.\n\nThe astonishing account given by Uncle Gregorio of the Moncayo gnomes,\nwhose secret haunt was in the village fountain, set soaring anew the\nwild dreams of the two enamored sisters, for it formed a sequel, so to\nspeak, to the hitherto unexplained tradition of the treasure found by\nthe fabled shepherdess--treasure whose remembered gleam had troubled\nmore than once their wakeful, embittered nights, flashing before their\nimaginations like a fragile ray of hope.\n\nThe evening following their afternoon meeting with Uncle Gregorio, all\nthe other girls of the village chatted in their homes about the\nwonderful story he had told them. Marta and Magdalena preserved an\nunbroken silence, and neither that evening, nor throughout the following\nday, did they exchange a single word on this matter, the theme of all\nthe talk throughout the hamlet and text of all the neighbors\u2019\ncommentaries.\n\nAt the usual hour, Magdalena took her water-jar and said to her sister:\n\u201cShall we go to the fountain?\u201d Marta did not answer, and Magdalena said\nagain: \u201cShall we go to the fountain? If we do not hurry, the sun will\nhave set before we are back.\u201d Marta finally replied shortly and roughly:\n\u201cI don\u2019t care about going to-day.\u201d \u201cNeither do I,\u201d rejoined Magdalena\nafter an instant of silence during which she kept her eyes fastened on\nthose of her sister, as if she would read in them the cause of her\nresolution.\n\n\nIII.\n\nFor nearly an hour the village girls had been back in their homes. The\nlast glow of sunset had faded on the horizon, and the night was\nbeginning to close in more and more darkly, when Marta and Magdalena,\neach avoiding the other, left the hamlet by different paths in the\ndirection of the mysterious fountain. The fountain welled up in a hidden\nnook among some steep, mossy rocks at the further end of a deep grove.\nNow that the sounds of the day had ceased little by little, and no\nlonger was heard the distant echo of voices from the laborers who return\nhome in knightly fashion, mounted on their yoked oxen and trolling out\nsongs to the accompaniment of the beam of the plough they go dragging\nover the ground,--now that the monotonous clang of the sheep-bells had\ngone beyond hearing, together with the shouts of the shepherds and the\nbarking of their dogs gathering the flocks together,--now that there had\nsounded in the village-tower the last peal of the call to prayers, there\nreigned august that double silence of night and solitude, a silence full\nof strange, soft murmurs making it yet more perceptible.\n\nMarta and Magdalena slipped through the labyrinth of the trees and,\nsheltered by the darkness, arrived without seeing each other at the far\nend of the grove. Marta knew no fear; her steps were firm and\nunfaltering. Magdalena trembled at the mere rustle made by her feet as\nthey trod upon the dry leaves carpeting the ground. When the two sisters\nwere close to the fountain, the night wind began to stir the branches of\nthe poplars, and to their uneven, sighing whispers the springing water\nseemed to make answer with a steady, regular murmur.\n\nMarta and Magdalena lent attention to those soft noises of the\nnight,--those that flowed beneath their feet like a continuous ripple\nof laughter, and those that floated above their heads like a lament\nrising and falling only to rise again and spread through the foliage of\nthe grove. As the hours went on, that unceasing sound of the air and of\nthe water began to produce in them a strange exaltation, a kind of\ndizziness that, clouding the eyes and humming in the ears, seemed to\nconfuse them utterly. Then as one hears in dreams the far, vague echo of\nspeech, they seemed to perceive, amid those nameless noises,\ninarticulate sounds as of a child who would call his mother and cannot;\nthen words repeated over and over, always the same; then disconnected,\ninconsequent phrases, without order or meaning, and at last--at last the\nwind wandering among the trees, and the water leaping from rock to rock,\ncommenced to speak.\n\nAnd they spoke thus:\n\nTHE WATER.\n\nWoman!--woman!--hear me!--hear me and draw near that thou mayst hear me,\nand I will kiss thy feet while I tremble to copy thine image in the\nshadowy depth of my waves. Woman!--hear how my murmurs are words.\n\nTHE WIND.\n\nMaiden!--Gentle maiden, lift thine head, let me give thy brow the kiss\nof peace, while I stir thy tresses. Gentle maiden, listen to me, for I,\ntoo, know how to speak and I will murmur in thine ear phrases of\ntenderness.\n\nMARTA.\n\nOh, speak! Speak, and I will understand, for my mind floats in a dizzy\nmaze, as float those dim words of thine.\n\nSpeak, mysterious stream.\n\nMAGDALENA.\n\nI am afraid. Air of night, air of perfumes, refresh my burning brow!\nTell me what may inspire me with courage, for my spirit wavers.\n\nTHE WATER.\n\nI have crossed the dark hollow of the earth, I have surprised the secret\nof its marvellous fecundity, and I know the phenomena of its inner\nparts, whence springs the life to be.\n\nMy murmur lulls to sleep and awakens. Awaken thou that thou mayst\ncomprehend it.\n\nTHE WIND.\n\nI am the air which the angels, as they traverse space, set in motion\nwith their mighty wings. I mass up in the west the clouds that offer to\nthe sun a bed of purple, and I shed at dawn, from the mists that vanish\ninto drops, a pearly dew over the flowers. My sighs are a balm: open\nthine heart and I will flood it with bliss.\n\nMARTA.\n\nWhen for the first time I heard the murmur of a subterranean stream, not\nin vain did I bow myself to the earth, lending it ear. With it there\nwent a mystery which at last it should be mine to understand.\n\nMAGDALENA.\n\nSighs of the wind, I know you well: you used to caress me, a dreaming\nchild, when, spent with weeping, I gave myself up to slumber, and your\nsoft breathings would seem to me the words of a mother who sings her\nchild to sleep.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe water ceased from speech for a few moments and made no other noise\nthan that of water breaking on rocks. The wind was voiceless, too, and\nits sound was no other than the sound of blowing leaves. So passed some\ntime, and then they spoke again, and thus they spoke:\n\nTHE WATER.\n\nSince I came filtering, drop by drop, through the vein of gold in an\ninexhaustible mine; since I came running along a bed of silver and\nleaping, as over pebbles, amid innumerable sapphires and amethysts,\nbearing on with me, in lieu of sands, diamonds and rubies, I have joined\nmyself in mystic union to a spirit of the earth. Enriched by his power\nand by the occult virtues of the precious stones and metals, saturated\nwith whose atoms I come, I can offer thee the utmost reach of thine\nambitions. I have the force of an incantation, the power of a talisman,\nand the virtue of the seven stones and the seven colors.\n\nTHE WIND.\n\nI come from wandering over the plain, and as the bee that returns to the\nhive with its booty of sweet honey, I bring with me woman\u2019s sighs,\nchildren\u2019s prayers, words of chaste love, and aromas of nard and wild\nlilies. I have gathered in my journey no more than fragrances and echoes\nof harmonies; my treasures are not material, but they give peace of soul\nand the vague happiness of pleasant dreams.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhile her sister, drawn on and on as by a spell, was leaning over the\nmargin of the fountain to hear better, Magdalena was instinctively\nmoving away, withdrawing from the steep rocks in whose midst bubbled the\nspring.\n\nBoth had their eyes fixed, the one on the depth of the waters, the other\non the depth of the sky.\n\nAnd Magdalena exclaimed, seeing the astral splendors overhead: \u201cThese\nare the halos of the invisible angels who have us in their keeping.\u201d\n\nAt the same instant Marta was saying, seeing the reflection of the stars\ntremble in the clear waters of the fountain: \u201cThese are the particles of\ngold which the stream gathers in its mysterious course.\u201d\n\nThe fountain and the wind, after a second brief period of silence, spoke\nagain and said:\n\nTHE WATER.\n\nTrust thyself to my current, cast from thee fear as a coarse garment,\nand dare to cross the threshold of the unknown. I have divined that thy\nsoul is of the essence of the higher spirits.\n\nEnvy perchance hath thrust thee out of heaven to plunge thee into the\nmire of mortal misery. Yet I see in thy darkened brow a seal of pride\nthat renders thee worthy of us, spirits strong and free.--Come; I am\ngoing to teach thee magic words of such virtue that as thou speakest\nthem the rocks will open and allure thee with the diamonds that are in\ntheir hearts, as pearls are in the shells which fishermen bring up from\nthe bottom of the sea. Come! I will give thee treasures that thou mayst\nlive in joy, and later, when the cell that imprisons thee is shattered,\nthy spirit shall be made like unto our own, which are human spirits, and\nall in one we shall be the motive force, the vital ray of the universe,\ncirculating like a fluid through its subterranean arteries.\n\nTHE WIND.\n\nWater licks the earth and lives in the mud; I roam the ether and fly in\nlimitless space. Follow the impulses of thy heart; let thy soul rise\nlike flame and the azure spirals of smoke. Wretched is he who, having\nwings, descends to the depths to seek for gold, while he might mount to\nthe heights for love and sympathy.\n\nLive hidden as the violet, and I will give thee in a fruitful kiss the\nliving seed of another, sister flower, and I will rend the clouds that\nthere may not be lacking a sunbeam to illume thy joy. Live obscure, live\nunheeded, and when thy spirit is set free, I will lift it on a rosy\ncloud up to the world of light.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWind and wave were hushed, and there appeared the gnome.\n\nThe gnome was like a transparent pigmy, a sort of dwarf all made of\nlight, as a Will-o-the-wisp; it laughed hugely, but without noise, and\nleapt from rock to rock, making one dizzy with its giddy antics.\nSometimes it plunged into the water and kept on shining in the depths\nlike a precious stone of myriad colors; again it leapt to the surface,\nand tossed its feet and its hands, and swung its head from one side to\nthe other with a rapidity that was little short of prodigious.\n\nMarta had seen the gnome and was following him with a bewildered gaze in\nall his extravagant evolutions; and when the diabolical spirit darted\naway at last into the craggy wilds of the Moncayo, like a running flame,\nshaking out sparks from its hair, she felt an irresistible attraction\nand rushed after it in frantic chase.\n\n_Magdalena!_ at the same instant called the breeze, slowly withdrawing;\nand Magdalena, moving step by step like a sleep-walker guided in slumber\nby a friendly voice, followed the zephyr, which was softly blowing over\nthe plain.\n\nWhen all was done, again there was silence in the dusky grove, and the\nwind and the water kept on, as ever, with sounds as of murmuring and\nsighing.\n\n\nIV.\n\nMagdalena returned to the hamlet pale and full of amazement. They waited\nin vain for Marta all that night.\n\nOn the afternoon of the following day, the village girls found a broken\nwater-jar at the margin of the fountain in the grove. It was Marta\u2019s\nwater-jar; nothing more was ever known of her. Since then the girls go\nfor water so early that they rise with the sun. A few have assured me\nthat by night there has been heard, more than once, the weeping of\nMarta, whose spirit lives imprisoned in the fountain. I do not know what\ncredit to give to this last part of the story, for the truth is that\nsince that night nobody has dared penetrate into the grove to hear it\nafter the ringing of the _Ave Maria_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISERERE\n\n\nSome months since, while visiting the celebrated abbey of Fitero and\nentertaining myself by turning over a few volumes in its neglected\nlibrary, I discovered, stowed away in a dark corner, two or three old\nbooks of manuscript music, covered with dust and gnawed at the edges by\nrats.\n\nIt was a _Miserere_.\n\nI do not read music, but it attracts me so that, even though I do not\nunderstand it, I sometimes take up the score of an opera and pore over\nits pages for hours, looking at the groups of notes more or less crowded\ntogether, the dashes, the semi-circles, the triangles and that sort of\n_et cetera_ called keys, and all this without comprehending an iota or\nderiving the slightest profit.\n\nAfter this foolish habit of mine, I turned over the leaves of the\nmusic-books, and the first thing which attracted my attention was the\nfact that, although on the last page stood that Latin word so common in\nall compositions, _finis_, the _Miserere_ was not concluded, for the\nmusic did not go beyond the tenth verse of the psalm.\n\nThis it was, undoubtedly, that arrested my attention first; but as soon\nas I scanned the pages closely, I was still more surprised to observe\nthat instead of the Italian words commonly used, such as _maestoso_,\n_allegro_, _ritardando_, _piu vivo_, _\u00e0 piacere_, there were lines of\nvery small German script written in, some of which called for things as\ndifficult to do as this: \u201c_They crack--crack the bones, and from their\nmarrow must the cries seem to come forth_;\u201d or this other: \u201c_The chord\nshrieketh, yet in unison; the tone thundereth, yet without deafening;\nfor all that hath sound soundeth, and there is no confusion, and all is\nhumanity that sobbeth and groaneth_;\u201d or what was certainly the most\noriginal of all, enjoined just under the last verse: \u201c_The notes are\nbones covered with flesh; light inextinguishable, the heavens and their\nharmony--force!--force and sweetness._\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know what this is?\u201d I asked of the old friar who accompanied me,\nafter I had half translated these lines, which seemed like phrases\nscribbled by a lunatic.\n\nMy aged guide then told me the legend which I now pass on to you.\n\n\nI.\n\nMany years ago, on a dark and rainy night, a pilgrim arrived at the\ncloister door of this abbey and begged for a little fire to dry his\nclothes, a morsel of bread to appease his hunger, and a shelter, however\nhumble, till the morning, when he would resume his journey at dawn.\n\nThe lay-brother of whom this request was made placed his own meagre\nrepast, his own poor bed and his glowing hearth at the service of the\ntraveller, to whom, after he had recovered from his exhaustion, were put\nthe usual questions as to the purpose of his pilgrimage and the goal to\nwhich his steps were bent.\n\n\u201cI am a musician,\u201d replied the stranger. \u201cI was born far from here, and\nin my own country I enjoyed a day of great renown. In my youth I made of\nmy art a powerful weapon of seduction and I enkindled with it passions\nwhich drew me on to crime. In my old age I would use for good the\ntalents which I have employed for evil, redeeming my soul by the very\nmeans that have brought it into danger of the judgment.\u201d\n\nAs the enigmatic words of the unknown guest did not seem at all clear\nto the lay-brother, whose curiosity was now becoming aroused, he was\nmoved to press his questions further, obtaining the following response:\n\n\u201cI was ever weeping in the depths of my soul for the sin that I had\ncommitted; but when I tried to pray to God for mercy, I could find no\nadequate words to utter my repentance, until one day my eyes chanced to\nfall upon a holy book. I opened that book and on one of its pages I met\nwith a giant cry of true contrition, a psalm of David, commencing:\n_Miserere mei, Domine!_ From the instant in which I read those verses my\none thought has been to find a musical expression so magnificent, so\nsublime, that it would suffice as a setting for the Royal Psalmist\u2019s\nmighty hymn of anguish. As yet I have not found it; but if I ever attain\nto the point of expressing what I feel in my heart, what I hear\nconfusedly in my brain, I am sure of writing a _Miserere_ so marvellous\nin beauty that the sons of men will have heard no other like unto it, so\ndesperate in grief that, as its first strains rise to heaven, the\narchangels, their eyes flooded with tears, will with me cry out unto the\nLord, beseeching _Mercy_; and the Lord will be merciful to his unhappy\ncreature.\u201d\n\nThe pilgrim, on reaching this point in his narrative, paused for an\ninstant, and then, heaving a sigh, took up again the thread of his\nstory. The lay-brother, a few dependents of the abbey, and two or three\nshepherds from the friars\u2019 farm--these who formed the circle about the\nhearth--listened to him in the deepest silence.\n\n\u201cAfter travelling over all Germany,\u201d he continued, \u201call Italy and the\ngreater part of this country whose sacred music is classic, I have not\nyet heard a _Miserere_ that can give me my inspiration, not one,--not\none, and I have heard so many that I may say I have heard them all.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll?\u201d broke in one of the upper shepherds. \u201cBut you have not heard,\nhave you, the _Miserere_ of the Mountain?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: A MONASTERY COURT]\n\n\u201cThe _Miserere_ of the Mountain!\u201d exclaimed the musician with an air of\namazement. \u201cWhat _Miserere_ is that?\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I say so?\u201d muttered the peasant under his breath, and then went\non in a mysterious tone: \u201cThis _Miserere_, which is only heard, as\nchance may fall, by those who, like myself, wander day and night\nfollowing the sheep through the thickets and over the rocky hills, is,\nin fact, a tradition, a very old tradition; yet incredible as it seems,\nit is no less true.\n\n\u201cThe case is that, in the most rugged part of yonder mountain chains\nwhich bound the horizon of this valley in whose bosom the abbey stands,\nthere used to be, many years ago--why do I say many years!--many\ncenturies, rather, a famous monastery. This monastery, it seems, was\nbuilt at his own cost by a lord with the wealth that he would naturally\nhave left to his son, whom on his death-bed he disinherited, as a\npunishment for the young profligate\u2019s evil deeds.\n\n\u201cSo far, all had gone well; but the trouble is that this son, who, from\nwhat will be seen further on, must have been the skin of the Devil, if\nnot the Devil himself, learning that his goods were in the possession of\nthe monks, and that his castle had been transformed into a church,\ngathered together a crew of banditti, comrades of his in the ruffian\nlife he had taken up on forsaking his father\u2019s house, and one Holy\nThursday night, when the monks would be in the choir, and at the very\nhour and minute when they would be just beginning or would have just\nbegun the _Miserere_, these outlaws set fire to the monastery, sacked\nthe church, and willy-nilly, left not a single monk alive.\n\n\u201cAfter this atrocity, the banditti and their leader went away, whither\nno one knows, perhaps to hell.\n\n\u201cThe flames reduced the monastery to ashes; of the church there still\nremain standing the ruins upon the hollow crag whence springs the\ncascade that after leaping down from rock to rock, forms the rill which\ncomes to bathe the walls of this abbey.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d--interrupted the musician impatiently, \u201cthe _Miserere_?\u201d\n\n\u201cWait a while,\u201d said the shepherd with great deliberation, \u201cand all will\nbe told in proper order.\u201d Vouchsafing no further reply, he continued his\nstory:\n\n\u201cThe people of all the country round about were shocked at the crime; it\nwas related with horror in the long winter evenings, handed down from\nfather to son, and from son to grandson; but what tends most of all to\nkeep it fresh in memory is that every year, on the anniversary of that\nnight when the church was burned, lights are seen shining out through\nits shattered windows, and there is heard a sort of strange music, with\nmournful, terrible chants that are borne at intervals upon the gusts of\nwind.\n\n\u201cThe singers are the monks, who, slain perchance before they were ready\nto present themselves pure of all sin at the Judgment Seat of God, still\ncome from Purgatory to implore His mercy, chanting the _Miserere_.\u201d\n\nThe group about the fire exchanged glances of incredulity; but the\npilgrim, who had seemed to be vitally interested in the recital of the\ntradition, inquired eagerly of the narrator:\n\n\u201cAnd do you say that this marvel still takes place?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt will begin without fail in less than three hours, for the precise\nreason that this is Holy Thursday night, and the abbey clock has just\nstruck eight.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow far is the monastery from here?\u201d\n\n\u201cBarely a league and a half,--but what are you doing?\u201d \u201cWhither would\nyou go on a night like this?\u201d \u201cHave you fallen from the shelter of God\u2019s\nhand?\u201d exclaimed one and another as they saw the pilgrim, rising from\nhis bench and taking his staff, leave the fireplace and move toward the\ndoor.\n\n\u201cWhither am I going? To hear this miraculous music, to hear the great,\nthe true _Miserere_, the _Miserere_ of those who return to the world\nafter death, those who know what it is to die in sin.\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, he disappeared from the sight of the amazed lay-brother\nand the no less astonished shepherds.\n\nThe wind shrilled without and shook the doors as if a powerful hand were\nstriving to tear them from their hinges; the rain fell in torrents,\nbeating against the window-panes, and from time to time a\nlightning-flash lit up for an instant all the horizon that could be seen\nfrom there.\n\nAfter the first moment of bewilderment had passed the lay-brother\nexclaimed:\n\n\u201cHe is mad.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is mad,\u201d repeated the shepherds and, replenishing the fire, they\ngathered closely around the hearth.\n\n\nII.\n\nAfter walking for an hour or two, the mysterious personage, to whom they\nhad given the degree of madman in the abbey, by following upstream the\ncourse of the rill which the story-telling shepherd had pointed out to\nhim, reached the spot where rose the blackened, impressive ruins of the\nmonastery.\n\nThe rain had ceased; the clouds were drifting in long, dark masses, from\nbetween whose shifting shapes there glided from time to time a furtive\nray of doubtful, pallid light; and one would say that the wind, as it\nlashed the strong buttresses and swept with widening wings through the\ndeserted cloisters, was groaning in its flight. Yet nothing\nsupernatural, nothing extraordinary occurred to strike the imagination.\nTo him who had slept more nights than one without other shelter than\nthe ruins of an abandoned tower or a lonely castle,--to him who in his\nfar pilgrimage had encountered hundreds on hundreds of storms, all those\nnoises were familiar.\n\nThe drops of water which filtered through the cracks of the broken\narches and fell upon the stones below with a measured sound like the\nticking of a great clock; the hoots of the owl, screeching from his\nrefuge beneath the stone nimbus of an image still standing in a niche of\nthe wall; the stir of the reptiles that, wakened from their lethargy by\nthe tempest, thrust out their misshapen heads from the holes where they\nsleep, or crawled among the wild mustard and the briers that grow at the\nfoot of the altar, rooted in the crevices between the sepulchral slabs\nthat form the pavement of the church,--all those strange and mysterious\nmurmurs of the open country, of solitude and of night, came perceptibly\nto the ear of the pilgrim who, seated on the mutilated statue of a tomb,\nwas anxiously awaiting the hour when the marvellous event should take\nplace.\n\nBut still the time went by and nothing more was heard; those myriad\nconfused noises kept on sounding and combining with one another in a\nthousand different ways, but themselves always the same.\n\n\u201cAh, they have played a joke on me!\u201d thought the musician; but at that\nmoment he heard a new sound, a sound inexplicable in such a place, like\nthat made by a clock a few seconds before striking the hour, a sound of\nwhirring wheels, of stretching cords, of machinery secretly setting to\nwork and making ready to use its mysterious mechanic vitality, and a\nbell rang out the hour--one, two, three, up to eleven.\n\nIn the ruined church there was no bell nor clock, not even a bell-tower.\n\nThe last peal, lessening from echo to echo, had not yet died away; the\nvibration was still perceptible, trembling in the air, when the granite\ncanopies which overhung the sculptures, the marble steps of the altars,\nthe hewn stones of the ogee arches, the fretted screens of the choir,\nthe festoons of trefoil on the cornices, the black buttresses of the\nwalls, the pavements, the vaulted ceiling, the entire church, began to\nbe lighted by no visible agency, nor was there in sight torch or lamp or\ncandle to shed abroad that unwonted radiance.\n\nIt suggested a skeleton over whose yellow bones spreads that phosphoric\ngas which burns and puts forth fumes in the darkness like a blue light,\nrestless and terrible.\n\nEverything seemed to be in motion, but with that galvanic movement which\nlends to death contractions that parody life, instantaneous movement\nmore horrible even than the inertia of the corpse which stirs with that\nunknown force. Stones reunited themselves to stones; the altar, whose\nbroken fragments had before been scattered about in disorder, rose\nintact, as if the artificer had just given it the last blow of the\nchisel, and simultaneously with the altar rose the ruined chapels, the\nshattered capitals and the great, crumbled series of arches which,\ncrossing and interlacing at caprice, formed with their columns a\nlabyrinth of porphyry.\n\nAs soon as the church was rebuilt there grew upon the hearing a distant\nharmony which might have been taken for the wailing of the wind, but\nwhich was a chorus of far-off, solemn voices, that seemed to come from\nthe depths of the earth and rise to the surface little by little,\ncontinually growing more distinct.\n\nThe daring pilgrim began to fear, but with his fear still battled his\npassion for the bygone and the marvellous, and made valiant by the\nstrength of his desire, he left the tomb on which he was resting, leaned\nover the brink of the abyss, amid whose rocks leapt the torrent, rushing\nover the precipice with an incessant and terrifying thunder, and his\nhair rose with horror.\n\nIll wrapped in the tatters of their habits, their cowls, beneath whose\nfolds the dark eye-cavities of the skulls contrasted with the fleshless\njaws and the white teeth, drawn forward over their heads, he saw the\nskeletons of the monks who had been thrown from the battlements of the\nchurch down that headlong steep, emerging from the depth of the waters\nand, clutching with the long fingers of their bony hands at the fissures\nin the rocks, clamber over them up to the brink, chanting in low,\nsepulchral voice, but with a heartrending intonation of anguish, the\nfirst verse of David\u2019s Psalm:\n\n_Miserere mei, Domine, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam!_\n\nWhen the monks reached the peristyle of the church they arranged\nthemselves in two rows and, entering, went in procession to the choir\nwhere they knelt in their places, while with voices louder and yet more\nsolemn they continued to intone the verses of the psalm. The music\nsounded in accompaniment to their voices; that music was the distant\nroll of the thunder which sank into murmurs as the tempest subsided; it\nwas the blowing of the wind which groaned in the hollow of the mountain;\nit was the monotonous splash of the cascade falling down the crag; and\nthe drip of the filtered waterdrops, and the hoot of the hidden owl,\nand the gliding sound of the uneasy reptiles. All this was in the\nmusic, and something more that cannot be expressed nor scarcely\nconceived,--something more that seemed like the echo of an organ\naccompanying the verses of the Royal Psalmist\u2019s giant hymn of\ncontrition, with notes and chords as tremendous as the awful words.\n\nThe service proceeded; the musician who witnessed it, absorbed and\nterrified as he was, believed himself to be outside the actual world,\nliving in that fantastic region of dreams where all things reclothe\nthemselves in phenomenal and alien forms.\n\nA terrible shock came to rouse him from that stupor which was clogging\nall the faculties of his mind. His nerves sprang to the thrill of a\nmighty emotion, his teeth chattered, shaking with a tremor he could in\nno wise repress, and the chill penetrated to the marrow of his bones.\n\nAt that instant the monks were intoning those dread words of the\n_Miserere_:\n\n_In iniquitatibus conceptus sum; et in peccatis concepit me mater mea._\n\nAs the thunder of this verse went rolling in sonorous echo from vault to\nvault, there arose a terrible outcry which seemed a wail of agony\nbreaking from all humanity for its sense of sin, a horrible wail made up\nof all the laments of the unfortunate, all the shrieks of despair, all\nthe blasphemies of the impious, a monstrous consonance, fit interpreter\nof those who live in sin and were conceived in iniquity.\n\nThe chant went on, now sad and deep, now like a sunbeam which breaks\nthrough the dark storm cloud, succeeding the lightning-flash of terror\nby another flash of joy, until by grace of a sudden transformation the\nchurch stood resplendent, bathed in celestial light; the skeletons of\nthe monks were again clothed in their flesh, about their brows shone\nlustrous aureoles, the roof vanished and above was seen heaven like a\nsea of light open to the gaze of the righteous.\n\nSeraphim, archangels, angels and all the heavenly hierarchy accompanied\nwith a hymn of glory this verse, which then rose sublime to the throne\nof the Lord like the rhythmical notes of a trumpet, like a colossal\nspiral of sonorous incense:\n\n_Auditui meo dabis gaudium et laetitiam, et exultabunt ossa humiliata._\n\nAt this point the dazzling brightness blinded the pilgrim\u2019s eyes, his\ntemples throbbed violently, there was a roaring in his ears, he fell\nsenseless to the ground and heard no more.\n\n\nIII.\n\nOn the following day, the peaceful monks of the Abbey of Fitero, to whom\nthe lay-brother had given an account of the strange visit of the night\nbefore, saw the unknown pilgrim, pallid and like a man beside himself,\nentering their doors.\n\n\u201cDid you hear the _Miserere_ at last?\u201d the lay-brother asked him with a\ncertain tinge of irony, slyly casting a glance of intelligence at his\nsuperiors.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the musician.\n\n\u201cAnd how did you like it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am going to write it. Give me a refuge in your house,\u201d he continued,\naddressing the abbot, \u201ca refuge and bread for a few months, and I will\nleave you an immortal work of art, a _Miserere_ which shall blot out my\nsins from the sight of God, eternize my memory, and with it the memory\nof this abbey.\u201d\n\nThe monks, out of curiosity, counselled the abbot to grant his request;\nthe abbot, for charity, though he believed the man a lunatic, finally\nconsented; and the musician, thus installed in the monastery, began his\nwork.\n\nNight and day he labored with unremitting zeal. In the midst of his task\nhe would pause and appear to be listening to something which sounded in\nhis imagination; his pupils would dilate and he would spring from his\nseat exclaiming: \u201cThat is it; so; so; no doubt about it--so!\u201d And he\nwould go on writing notes with a feverish haste which more than once\nmade those who kept him under secret observation wonder.\n\nHe wrote the first verses, and those following to about the middle of\nthe Psalm; but when he had written the last verse that he had heard upon\nthe mountain, it was impossible for him to proceed.\n\nHe made one, two, one hundred, two hundred rough drafts; all in vain.\nHis music was not like the music already written. Sleep fled from his\neyelids, he lost his appetite, fever seized upon his brain, he went mad,\nand died, at last, without being able to finish the _Miserere_, which,\nas a curiosity, the monks treasured till his death, and even yet\npreserve in the archives of the abbey.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhen the old man had made an end of telling me this story, I could not\nrefrain from turning my eyes again to the dusty, ancient manuscript of\nthe _Miserere_, which still lay upon one of the tables.\n\n_In peccatis concepit me mater mea._\n\nThese were the words on the page before me, seeming to mock me with\ntheir notes, their keys and their scrawls unintelligible to lay-brothers\nin music.\n\nI would have given a world to be able to read them.\n\nWho knows if they may not be mere nonsense?\n\n\n\n\nSTRANGE\n\n\nI.\n\nWe were taking tea in the house of a lady who is a friend of mine, and\nthe talk turned upon the social dramas which develop from act to act,\nunheeded of the world,--dramas with whose leading characters we have\nbeen acquainted, if indeed we have not ourselves played a part in one or\nanother of their scenes.\n\nAmong numerous other persons whom I do not remember, there was a girl of\nthe blonde type, fair and slender, who, if she had had a lapful of\nflowers in place of the blear-eyed little dog that growled half hidden\nin the wide folds of her skirt, might have been compared without\nexaggeration to Shakespeare\u2019s Ophelia.\n\nSo pure was the white of her forehead, the azure of her eyes.\n\nConversing with the fair girl was a young man, who stood with one hand\nresting on the _causeuse_ of blue velvet where she sat and the other\ncaressing the precious trinkets of his gold chain. In his affected\npronunciation a slight foreign accent was noticeable, despite the fact\nthat his look and bearing were as Spanish as those of the Cid or\nBernardo del Carpio.\n\nA gentleman of mature years, tall, thin, of distinguished and courteous\nmanners, who seemed seriously preoccupied with the operation of\nsweetening to the exact point his cup of tea, completed the group\nnearest the fireplace, in whose warmth I sat down to tell this human\nhistory. It seems like a fable, but it is not; one could make a book of\nit; I have done so several times in imagination. Nevertheless, I will\ntell it in few words, since for him to whom it is given to comprehend\nit, these few will be more than enough.\n\nAndr\u00e9s, for so the hero of my tale was called, was one of those men\nwhose hearts abound with feeling for which they have found no outlet,\nand with love that has no object on which to spend itself.\n\nAn orphan almost from his birth, he was left in the care of relatives. I\ndo not know the details of his childhood; I can only say that whenever\nit was mentioned, his face would cloud and he would exclaim, with a\nsigh: \u201cThat is over now.\u201d\n\nWe all say the same, sadly recalling bygone joys. But was this the\nexplanation of his words? I repeat that I do not know; but I suspect\nnot.\n\nAs soon as he was grown, he launched out into the world. Though I would\nnot calumniate it, the fact remains that the world for the poor, and\nespecially for a certain class of the poor, is not a Paradise nor\nanything like it. Andr\u00e9s was, as the saying goes, one of those people\nwho rise, most days, with nothing to look forward to but twenty-four\nhours more. Judge then, my readers, what would be the state of a spirit\nall idealism, all love, put to the no less difficult than prosaic task\nof seeking our daily bread.\n\nYet sometimes, sitting on the edge of his lonely bed, his elbows on his\nknees and his head between his hands, he would exclaim:\n\n\u201cIf I only had something to love with all my heart! A wife, a horse,\neven a dog!\u201d\n\nAs he had not a copper to spare, it was not possible for him to get\nanything,--not any object on which to satisfy his hunger to love. This\nwaxed to such a point that in its acute attacks he came to feel an\naffection for the wretched closet where he slept, the scanty furniture\nthat met his needs, his very landlady, that patron saint who was his\nevil genius.\n\nThis is not at all surprising; Josephus relates that during the siege of\nJerusalem hunger reached such a point that mothers devoured their\nchildren.\n\nThere came a day when he was able to secure a very small living wage.\nThe evening of that day, when he was returning to his boarding-house, on\ncrossing a narrow street he heard a sort of wail, like the crying of a\nnew-born child. He had taken but a few steps further after hearing those\ndoleful sounds, when he exclaimed, stopping short:\n\n\u201cWhat the deuce is that?\u201d\n\nAnd he touched with the toe of his shoe a soft object that moved, and\nfell again to mewling and whining. It was one of those new-born puppies\nthat people cast out to the mercy of the rubbish heap.\n\n\u201cProvidence has placed it in my path,\u201d said Andr\u00e9s to himself, picking\nit up and wrapping it in the skirt of his coat; and he carried it to his\nmiserable lodging.\n\n\u201cWhat now!\u201d grumbled the landlady on seeing him enter with the puppy;\n\u201call we needed was this fresh nuisance in the house. Take it back this\nminute to where you found it, or else look up new quarters for the two\nof you to-morrow.\u201d\n\nThe next day Andr\u00e9s was turned out of the house, and in the course of\ntwo or three months he left some two hundred more, for the same reason.\nBut for all these inconveniences, and a thousand others which it is\nimpossible to detail, he was richly compensated by the intelligence and\naffection of the dog, with whom he diverted himself as with a person in\nhis long hours of solitude and _ennui_. They ate together, they enjoyed\ntheir siestas together, and together they would take a turn in the\nRonda, or go to walk along the Carabanchel road.\n\nEvening gatherings, fashionable promenades, theatres, caf\u00e9s, places\nwhere dogs are not allowed or would be in the way, were forbidden to our\nhero, who sometimes exclaimed from the fulness of his heart, as he\nresponded to the caresses of his very own:\n\n\u201cDoggy mine! you can do everything but talk.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\nIt would be wearisome to explain how, but it came to pass that Andr\u00e9s\nsomewhat bettered his position, and seeing that he had money in hand, he\nsaid:\n\n\u201cIf I only had a wife! But having a wife is very expensive. Men like me,\nbefore choosing a bride, should have a paradise to offer her, and a\nparadise in Madrid is worth as much as a man\u2019s eye.--If I could buy a\nhorse! A horse! There is no animal more noble or more beautiful. How he\nwould love my dog! what merry times they would have with each other, and\nI with both!\u201d\n\nOne afternoon he went to the bullfight, and before the entertainment\nbegan, he unpremeditatedly strolled out into the court-yard, where the\nhorses who had to take part in the contest were waiting, already\nsaddled.\n\nI do not know whether my readers have ever had the curiosity to go and\nsee them. For myself, without claiming to be as tender-hearted as the\nprotagonist of this tale, I can assure you that I have often had a mind\nto buy them all. So great was the pity that I felt for them.\n\nAndr\u00e9s could not fail to experience a most grievous sensation on finding\nhimself in this place. Some of the horses, with drooping heads,\ncreatures all skin and bone, their manes rough and dirty, were standing\nmotionless, awaiting their turn, as if they had a foreboding of the\ndreadful death which would put an end, within a few hours, to that\nmiserable life of theirs; others, half blind, were sniffing about for\nthe rack and eating, or, tearing the ground with the hoof and snorting\nwildly, were struggling to pull themselves loose and flee from the peril\nwhich they scented with horror. And all those animals had been young and\nbeautiful. What aristocratic hands had patted their necks! What\naffectionate voices had urged on their speed! And now all was blows from\none side, oaths from the other, and death at last, death in terrible\nagony accompanied by jests and hisses!\n\n\u201cIf they think at all,\u201d said Andr\u00e9s, \u201cwhat will these animals think at\nthe core of their dim intelligence, when in the middle of the ring they\nbite their tongues and expire with a frightful spasm? Truly the\ningratitude of man is sometimes inconceivable.\u201d\n\nHe was startled out of those reflections by the rough voice of one of\nthe _picadores_, who was swearing and cursing while he tested the legs\nof one of the horses, striking the butt-end of his lance against the\nwall. The horse did not seem entirely contemptible; apparently it was\ncrazy or had some mortal disease.\n\nAndr\u00e9s thought of buying it. As for the cost, it ought not to cost much;\nbut how about its keep? The _picador_ plunged the spur into its flank\nand started to ride toward the gate of the ring; our youth wavered for\nan instant and then stopped him. How he did it, I do not know; but in\nless than a quarter of an hour he had induced the horseman to leave the\nbeast behind, had hunted up the contractor, made his bargain for the\nhorse and taken it away.\n\nI suppose it is superfluous to say that on that afternoon he did not see\nthe bullfight.\n\nHe led off the horse in triumph; but the horse, in fact, was or appeared\nto be crazy.\n\n\u201cUse plenty of stick on him,\u201d said one authority.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t give him much to eat,\u201d advised a blacksmith.\n\nThe horse was still unruly. \u201cBah!\u201d at last exclaimed his owner. \u201cLet him\neat what he likes and do as he chooses.\u201d The horse was not old, and now\nbegan to fatten and grow more docile. It is true that he still had his\nwhims, and that nobody but Andr\u00e9s could mount him; but his master said:\n\u201cSo I shall not be teased to lend him; and as for his oddities, each of\nus will get accustomed to those of the other.\u201d And they came to such a\ngood understanding that Andr\u00e9s knew when the horse felt like doing a\nthing and when not, and as for the horse, the voice of his master was\nenough to make him take a leap, stand still, or set off at a gallop,\nswift as a hurricane.\n\nOf the dog we need say nothing; he came to be so friendly with his new\ncomrade that neither could go out, even to drink, without the other.\nFrom this time on, when Andr\u00e9s set off at a gallop in a cloud of dust on\nthe Carabanchel road, with his dog frisking along beside him, dashing\nahead to turn back and hunt for him, or letting him pass to scamper up\nand overtake him, he believed himself the happiest of men.\n\nTime went by; our young man was rich, or almost rich.\n\nOne day, after a long gallop, he alighted, tired out, near a tree and\nstretched himself in its shade.\n\nIt was a spring day, bright and blue,--one of those days in which men\nbreathe voluptuously the warm air impregnated with passion, in which the\nblowing of the wind comes to the ear like distant harmonies, in which\nthe clear horizons are outlined in gold, and there float before our eyes\nshining motes of I know not what, motes like transparent forms that\nfollow us, encompass us and intoxicate us with sadness and with\nhappiness at once.\n\n\u201cI dearly love these two beings,\u201d exclaimed Andr\u00e9s as he reclined there\nstroking his dog with one hand and with the other giving to his horse a\nhandful of grass, \u201cdearly; but yet there is a vacancy in my heart which\nhas never been filled; I still have it in me to lavish a love greater,\nholier, purer. Decidedly I need a wife.\u201d\n\nAt that moment there passed along the road a young girl with a water-jar\nupon her head.\n\nAndr\u00e9s was not thirsty, but yet he begged a drink of water. The girl\nstopped to offer it to him, and did so with such gentle grace that our\nyouth comprehended perfectly one of the most patriarchal episodes of the\nBible.\n\n\u201cWhat is your name?\u201d he asked when he had drunk.\n\n\u201cPlacida.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what do you do with yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am the daughter of a merchant who died ruined and persecuted for his\npolitical opinions. After his death, my mother and I retired to a\nhamlet, where we get on very badly with a pension of three _reales_\n[fifteen cents a day] for all our living. My mother is ill, and\neverything comes on me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why haven\u2019t you married?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know; in the village they say that I am good for nothing about\nwork, that I am very delicate, very much the _se\u00f1orita_.\u201d\n\nThe girl, with a courteous good-bye, moved away.\n\nWhile she was still in sight, Andr\u00e9s watched her retreating form in\nsilence; when she was lost to view, he said with the satisfaction of one\nwho solves a problem:\n\n\u201cThis is the woman for me.\u201d\n\nHe mounted his horse and, followed by his dog, took his way to the\nvillage. He promptly made the acquaintance of the mother and, almost as\nsoon, utterly lost his heart to the daughter. When at the end of a few\nmonths she was left an orphan, he married her, a man in love with his\nwife, which is one of the greatest blessings life affords.\n\nTo marry, and to set up housekeeping in a country mansion situated in\none of the most picturesque spots of his native land, was the work of a\nfew days.\n\nWhen he saw himself in this residence, rich, with his wife, his dog and\nhis horse, he had to rub his eyes; he thought he must be dreaming. So\nhappy, so perfectly happy was poor Andr\u00e9s.\n\n\nIV.\n\nSo he lived for a period of several years, in divine bliss, when one\nafternoon he thought he noticed that some one was prowling about his\nhouse, and later he surprised a man fitting his eye to the key-hole of\none of the garden-doors.\n\n\u201cThere are robbers about,\u201d he said. And he determined to inform the\nnearest town, where there was a brace of civil guards.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d asked his wife.\n\n\u201cTo the town.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat for?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo inform the civil guards that I suspect some one is prowling about\nour house.\u201d\n\nWhen his wife heard that, she paled slightly. He, giving her a kiss,\ncontinued:\n\n\u201cI am going on foot, for it is not far. Good-bye till I come again.\u201d\n\nOn passing through the court-yard to reach the gate, he stepped into the\nstable a moment, looked his horse over and, patting him, said:\n\n\u201cGood-bye, old fellow, good-bye; to-day you shall rest, for yesterday I\nput you to your paces.\u201d\n\nThe horse, who was accustomed to go out every day with his master,\nwhinnied sadly on hearing him depart.\n\nWhen Andr\u00e9s was about to leave the premises, the dog began to frolic for\njoy.\n\n\u201cNo, you are not coming with me,\u201d he exclaimed, speaking as if the dog\nwould understand. \u201cWhen you go to the town, you bark at the boys and\nchase the hens, and some fine day somebody will give you such a blow\nthat you will have no spirit left to go back for another. Don\u2019t let him\nout until I am gone,\u201d he continued, addressing a servant, and he shut\nthe gate that the dog might not follow him.\n\nHe had taken the turn in the road before he ceased hearing the prolonged\nhowls.\n\nHe went to the town, despatched his business, had a pleasant half-hour\nwith the _alcalde_, chatting of this and that, and returned home. On\nreaching the neighborhood of his estate, he was greatly surprised that\nthe dog did not come out to welcome him, the dog that on other\noccasions, as if aware of his movements, would meet him half way down\nthe road.--He whistles--no response! He enters the outer gates. Not a\nservant! \u201cWhat the deuce is the meaning of this?\u201d he exclaims\ndisquieted, and proceeds to the house.\n\nArrived, he enters the court. The first sight that meets his eyes is the\ndog stretched in a pool of blood at the stable door. A few pieces of\ncloth scattered over the ground, some threads still hanging from his\njaws, covered with crimson foam, witness that he made a good defence and\nthat in the defence he had received the wounds so thick upon him.\n\nAndr\u00e9s calls him by his name; the dying dog half opens his eyes, tries\nin vain to get upon his feet, feebly wags his tail, licks the hand that\ncaresses him, and dies.\n\n\u201cMy horse! where is my horse?\u201d then exclaimed Andr\u00e9s with a voice hoarse\nand stifled by emotion, as he saw the stall empty and the halter broken.\n\nHe dashes thence like a madman; he calls his wife,--no answer; his\nservants,--nothing. Beside himself, he rushes over the whole\nhouse,--vacant, abandoned. Again he goes out to the street, sees the\nhoof-marks of his horse, his own,--no doubt of it,--for he knows, or\nthinks he knows, even the tracks of his cherished animal.\n\n\u201cI understand it all,\u201d he says, as if illumined by a sudden idea. \u201cThe\nrobbers have taken advantage of my absence to accomplish their design,\nand they are carrying off my wife to exact of me for her ransom a great\nsum of money. Money! my blood, my soul\u2019s salvation, would I give for\nher.--My poor dog!\u201d he exclaims, returning to look at him, and then he\nstarts forth running like a man out of his wits, following the direction\nof the hoof-prints.\n\nAnd he ran, he ran without resting for an instant after those tracks;\none hour, two, three.\n\n\u201cHave you seen,\u201d he asked of everybody, \u201ca man on horseback with a woman\non the crupper?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d they answered.\n\n\u201cWhich way did they go?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat way.\u201d\n\nAnd Andr\u00e9s would gather fresh force and keep on running.\n\nThe night commenced to fall. To the same question he had ever the same\nreply; and he ran, and he ran, until at last he discerned a village, and\nnear the entrance, at the foot of a cross which marked the point where\nthe road divided into two, he saw a group of people, laborers, old men,\nboys, who were regarding with curiosity something that he could not\ndistinguish.\n\nHe arrives, puts the same question as ever, and one of the group says:\n\n\u201cYes, we have had sight of that pair; look! for a clearer trace see the\nhorse that carried them, who fell here ruptured with running.\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s turns his eyes in the direction they indicated, and indeed sees\nhis horse, his beloved horse, which some men of the place were preparing\nto flay for the sake of its hide. He could scarcely resist his grief,\nbut recovering himself, he turned again to the thought of his wife.\n\n\u201cAnd tell me,\u201d he exclaimed impetuously; \u201chow you failed to render aid\nto that woman in distress.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd didn\u2019t we aid her!\u201d said another of the circle. \u201cDidn\u2019t I sell them\nanother saddle-horse so that they might press on their way with all the\nspeed that seemed so important to them!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d interrupted Andr\u00e9s, \u201cthat woman was stolen away by force; that\nman is a bandit, who, regardless of her tears and her laments, drags her\nI know not whither.\u201d\n\nThe sly rustics exchanged glances and compassionate smiles.\n\n\u201cNot so, _se\u00f1orito_! what tales are you telling us?\u201d slowly continued\nthe man with whom he was talking. \u201cStolen away by force! But how if it\nwere she herself who said with the greatest earnestness: \u2018Quick, quick,\nlet us flee from this district! I shall not be at rest until it is out\nof my sight forever.\u2019\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s comprehended all; a cloud of blood passed before his eyes--eyes\nwhich shed no tear, and he fell to the earth prone as the dead.\n\nHe went mad; in a few days, he died.\n\nThere was an autopsy; no organic trouble was found. Ah! if it were\npossible to dissect the soul, how many deaths similar to this would be\nexplained!\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cAnd did he actually die of that?\u201d exclaimed the youth, who was still\nplaying with the charms that hung from his watch chain, as I finished my\nstory.\n\nI glanced at him as if to say: \u201cDoes it seem to you so little?\u201d He\ncontinued with a certain air of profundity: \u201cStrange! I know what it is\nto suffer; when in the last races my Herminia stumbled, killed the\njockey and broke a leg, the misfortune of that animal vexed me\nhorribly; but, frankly, not so much as that--not so much as that.\u201d\n\nI was still regarding him with astonishment, when I heard a melodious\nand slightly veiled voice, the voice of the girl with the azure eyes.\n\n\u201cStrange, indeed! I love my Medoro dearly,\u201d she said, dropping a kiss on\nthe snout of the sluggish and blear-eyed lap-dog, who gave a little\ngrunt, \u201cbut if he should die, or somebody should kill him, I do not\nbelieve that I would go mad nor anything like it.\u201d\n\nMy astonishment was passing into stupefaction; these people had not\nunderstood me, nor wished to understand me.\n\nFinally I turned to the gentleman who was taking tea, for at his years\nhe might be expected to be somewhat more reasonable.\n\n\u201cAnd you? how does it seem to you?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cI will tell you,\u201d he replied. \u201cI am married; I loved my wife; I have,\nit seems to me, a regard for her still; there came up between us a\ndomestic unpleasantness, that by its publicity forced me to demand\nsatisfaction; a duel followed; I had the good luck to wound my\nadversary, an excellent fellow, as full of jest and wit as any man\nalive, with whom I am still in the habit of taking coffee occasionally\nin the Iberia. Since then I have ceased to live with my wife, and have\ndevoted myself to travel.--When I am in Madrid, I stay with her as a\nfriend visiting a friend; and all this has taken place without any\nviolent passions, without any great emotions, without any extraordinary\nsufferings. After this slight sketch of my character and of my life,\nwhat shall I say to you about these phenomenal explosions of feeling\nexcept that all this seems to me strange, very strange?\u201d\n\nWhen he had finished speaking, the blonde girl and the young man who was\nmaking love to her looked over together an album of Gabarni\u2019s\ncaricatures. In those few moments the elder gentleman treated himself\nwith exquisite enjoyment to his third cup of tea.\n\nWhen I called to mind that on hearing the outcome of my story they all\nhad said--_Strange!_--I for my part exclaimed to myself--_Natural!_\n\n\n\n\nWITHERED LEAVES\n\n\nThe sun had set. The wheeling masses of cloud were hastening to heap\nthemselves one above another in the distant horizon. The cold wind of\nautumn evenings was whirling the withered leaves about my feet.\n\nI was sitting by the side of a road [the road to the cemetery] where\never there return fewer than those who go.\n\nI do not know of what I was thinking, if, indeed, I was just then\nthinking of anything at all. My soul was trembling on the point of\nsoaring into space, as the bird trembles and flutters its wings before\ntaking flight.\n\nThere are moments in which, thanks to a series of abstractions, the\nspirit withdraws from its environment and, self-absorbed, analyzes and\ncomprehends the mysterious phenomena of the inner life of man.\n\nThere are other moments in which the soul slips free from the flesh,\nloses its personality, mingles with the elements of nature, relates\nitself to their mode of being and translates their incomprehensible\nlanguage.\n\nIn one of these latter moments was I, when, alone and in the midst of a\nclear tract of level ground, I heard talking near me.\n\nThe speakers were two withered leaves, and this, a little more or less\nexact, was their strange dialogue:\n\n\u201cWhence comest thou, sister?\u201d\n\n\u201cI come from riding on the whirlwind, enveloped in the cloud of dust and\nof withered leaves, our companions, all the length of the interminable\nplain. And thou?\u201d\n\n\u201cI drifted for a time with the current of the river, until the strong\nsouth wind snatched me up from the mud and reeds of the bank.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd whither bound?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know not. Doth perchance the wind that driveth me know?\u201d\n\n\u201cWoe is me! Who would have said that we should end like this, faded and\nwithered, dragging ourselves along the ground--we who lived clothed in\ncolor and light, dancing in the air?\u201d\n\n\u201cRememberest thou the beautiful days of our budding--that peaceful\nmorning when, at the breaking of the swollen sheath which had served us\nfor a cradle, we unfolded to the gentle kiss of the sun, like a fan of\nemeralds?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, how sweet it was to be swayed at that height by the breeze,\ndrinking in through every pore the air and the light!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, how beautiful it was to watch the flowing water of the river that\nlapped the twisted roots of the ancient tree which sustained us, that\nlimpid, transparent water, reflecting like a mirror the azure of the\nsky, so that we seemed to live suspended between two blue abysses!\u201d\n\n\u201cWith what delight we used to peep over the green foliage to see\nourselves pictured in the tremulous stream!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow we would sing together, imitating the murmur of the breeze and\nfollowing the rhythm of the waves!\u201d\n\n\u201cBrilliant insects would flit about us, spreading their gauzy wings.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the white butterflies and blue dragon-flies, gyrating in strange\ncircles through the air, would alight for a moment on our dentate edges\nto tell each other the secrets of that mysterious love lasting but an\ninstant and burning up their lives.\u201d\n\n\u201cEach of us was a note in the concert of the groves.\u201d\n\n\u201cEach of us was a tone in their harmony of color.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the silver nights when the moonbeams glided over the mountain tops,\ndost remember how we would chat in low voices amid the translucent\nshadows?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we would relate in soft whispers stories of the sylphs who swing in\nthe golden threads that the spiders hang from tree to tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cUntil we hushed our murmurous speech to listen enraptured to the\nplaints of the nightingale, who had chosen our tree for her throne of\nsong.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so sad and so tender were her lamenting strains that, though filled\nwith joy to hear her, the dawn found us weeping.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, how sweet were those tears which the dew of night would shed upon\nus, and which would sparkle with all the colors of the rainbow in the\nfirst gleam of dawn!\u201d\n\n\u201cThen came the jocund flock of linnets to pour into the grove life and\nsound with the gleeful, gay confusion of their songs.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd one enamoured pair hung close to us their round nest of straws and\nfeathers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe served to shelter the little ones from the troublesome rain-drops in\nthe summer tempests.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe served as a canopy to shield them from the fierce rays of the sun.\u201d\n\n\u201cOur life passed like a golden dream from which we had no thought there\ncould be an awakening.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne beautiful afternoon, when everything around us seemed to smile,\nwhen the setting sun was kindling the west and crimsoning the clouds,\nand from the earth, touched by the evening damp, were rising exhalations\nof life and the perfumes of flowers, two lovers stayed their steps on\nthe river bank at the foot of our parent tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever will that memory fade! She was young, scarcely more than a child,\nbeautiful and pallid. He asked her tenderly, \u2018Why weepest thou?\u2019\n\u2018Forgive this involuntary selfishness,\u2019 she replied, brushing away a\ntear; \u2018I weep for myself; I weep for the life which is slipping from me.\nWhen the sky is crowned with sunshine and the earth is clothed with\nverdure and flowers, and the wind is laden with perfumes, with the songs\nof birds and with far-off harmonies, and when one loves and feels\nherself beloved, life is good.\u2019 \u2018And why wilt thou not live?\u2019 he\ninsisted, deeply moved, clasping her hands close in his. \u2018Because I\ncannot. When these leaves, which whisper in unison above our heads, fall\nwithered, I, too, shall die, and the wind will some day bear away their\ndust, and mine--whither, who knoweth?\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI heard, and thou did\u2019st hear, and we shuddered and were silent. We\nmust wither! We must die, and be whirled about by the rushing wind! Mute\nand full of terror we remained even till nightfall. O, how terrible was\nthat night!\u201d\n\n\u201cFor the first time the love-lorn nightingale failed at the tryst which\nshe had enchanted with her mournful lays.\u201d\n\n\u201cSoon the birds flew away, and with them their little ones now clothed\nwith plumage, and only the nest remained, rocking slowly and sadly, like\nthe empty cradle of a dead child.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the white butterflies and the blue dragonflies fled, leaving their\nplace to obscure insects which came to eat away our fibre and to deposit\nin our bosoms their nauseous larvae.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, and how we shivered, shrinking from the icy touch of the night\nfrosts!\u201d\n\n\u201cWe lost our color and freshness.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe lost our pliancy and grace, and what before had been to us like the\nsoft sound of kisses, like the murmur of love words, now became a harsh,\ndry call, unwelcome, dismal.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd at last, dislodged, we flew away.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrodden under foot by the careless passers-by, whirled incessantly\nfrom one point to another in the dust and the mire, I accounted myself\nhappy when I could rest for an instant in the deep rut of a road.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have revolved unceasingly in the grip of the turbid stream; and in\nthe course of my long travels I saw, alone, in mourning garb and with\nclouded brow, gazing absently upon the running waters and the withered\nleaves which shared and marked their movement, one of those two lovers\nwhose words gave us our first presentment of death.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe, too, has lost her hold on life, and perchance will sleep in an\nopen, new-made grave over which I paused a moment.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, she sleeps and rests at last; but we, when shall we come to the end\nof our long journey?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever!--Even now the wind, which has given us a brief repose, blows\nonce more, and I feel myself constrained to rise from the ground and\nfollow. Adieu, sister!\u201d\n\n\u201cAdieu!\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe wind, quiet for a moment, whistled again, and the leaves rose in a\nwhirling confusion, to be lost afar in the darkness of the night.\n\nAnd then there came to me a thought that I cannot remember and that,\neven though I were to remember it, I could find no words to utter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SET OF EMERALDS\n\n\nWe were pausing on the Street of San Jer\u00f3nimo, in front of Dur\u00e1n\u2019s and\nwere reading the title of a book by Mery.\n\nAs my attention was called to that extraordinary title, and as I spoke\nof it to the friend who accompanied me, he, leaning lightly on my arm,\nexclaimed: \u201cThe day could not be more beautiful. Let us take a turn by\nthe Fuente Castellana. While we are walking, I will tell you a story in\nwhich I am the principal hero. You will see how, after hearing it, you\nwill not only understand this title, but will find its explanation the\neasiest thing in the world.\u201d\n\nI had plenty to do; but as I am always glad of an excuse for doing\nnothing, I accepted the proposition, and my friend began his story as\nfollows:\n\n\u201cSome time ago, one night when I had set out to stroll the streets,\nwithout any more definite object,--after having examined all the\ncollections of prints and photographs in the shop-windows, after having\nchosen in imagination in front of the Savoyard store the bronzes with\nwhich I would adorn my house, if I had one, after having made a minute\nsurvey, in fine, of all the objects of art and luxury exposed to public\nview upon the shelves behind the lighted plate-glass, I stopped a moment\nbefore Samper\u2019s.\n\n\u201cI do not know how long it was that I remained there, adorning, in\nfancy, all the pretty women I know, one with a collar of pearls, another\nwith a cross of diamonds, another with ear-rings of amethyst and gold. I\nwas deliberating at that point to whom to offer--who would be worthy of\nit--a magnificent set of emeralds as rich as it was elegant, which\namong all the other jewelled ornaments claimed attention for the beauty\nand clearness of its stones, when I heard at my side the softest,\nsweetest voice exclaim with an accent which could not fail to put my\nfancies to flight: \u2018What beautiful emeralds!\u2019\n\n\u201cI turned my head in the direction of that voice, a woman\u2019s voice, for\nonly so could it have left such an echo, and I confronted, in fact, a\nwoman supremely beautiful. I could look at her only a moment, and yet\nher loveliness made on me a profound impression.\n\n\u201cAt the door of the jeweller\u2019s shop from which she had come out, there\nwas a carriage. She was accompanied by a lady of mature age, too young\nto be her mother, too old to be her friend. When both had entered the\n_coup\u00e9_, the horses started, and I stood like a fool staring after her\nuntil she was lost to sight.\n\n\u201c\u2018What beautiful emeralds!\u2019 she had said. The emeralds were indeed\nsuperb. That collar, around her snowy neck, would look like a garland of\nyoung almond leaves besprent with dew; that brooch upon her bosom, a\nlotus-flower when it sways on its pulsing wave, crowned with foam. \u2018What\nbeautiful emeralds!\u2019 Would she like them, perhaps? And if she would like\nthem, why not have them? She must be rich, a lady of high rank. She has\nan elegant carriage, and on the door of that carriage I thought I saw a\ncrest. Doubtless in the life of this woman there is some mystery.\n\n\u201cThese were the thoughts that agitated my mind after I lost sight of\nher,--when not even the sound of her carriage wheels came to my ears.\nAnd truly there was in her life, apparently so peaceful and enviable, a\nhorrible mystery. I found it out--I will not tell you how.\n\n\u201cMarried when a mere child to a profligate who, after squandering his\nown fortune, had sought a profitable alliance, as the best means of\nsquandering another\u2019s, that woman, a model of wives and mothers, had\nrefused to gratify the least of her caprices that she might save some\npart of her inheritance for her daughter and that she might maintain in\nouter appearance the dignity of her house at the height which it had\nalways held in Spanish society.\n\n\u201cPeople tell of some women\u2019s great sacrifices. I believe that,\nconsidering their peculiar organization, there is none comparable with\nthe sacrifice of an ardent desire in which vanity and coquetry are\nconcerned.\n\n\u201cFrom the time when I penetrated the mystery of her life, all my\naspirations, through one of these freakish enthusiasms of my character,\nwere reduced to this only,--to get possession of that marvellous set of\njewels and to give it to her in such a way that she could not refuse it,\nnor even know from whose hand it might have come.\n\n\u201cAmong other difficulties which I at once encountered in the realization\nof my idea, assuredly not the least was that I had not money, neither\nmuch nor little, to buy the gems.\n\n\u201cYet I did not despair.\n\n\u201c\u2018Where shall I look for money?\u2019 I said to myself, and I remembered the\nmarvels of _The Thousand and One Nights_; those cabalistic words at\nwhose echo the earth opened and revealed hidden treasures; those rods of\nsuch rare virtue that, when rocks were smitten by them, there bubbled\nfrom the clefts not a spring of water, which was a small miracle, but\nrubies, topazes, pearls and diamonds.\n\n\u201cBeing ignorant of the words and not knowing where to find a rod, I\ndecided at last to write a book and sell it. To get money out of the\nrock of a publisher is nothing short of miraculous; but I did it.\n\n\u201cI wrote a book of original quality, which few people liked, as only one\nperson could understand it; for the rest it was merely a collection of\nphrases.\n\n[Illustration: A SE\u00d1ORITA\n\nFrom the painting by F. Goya]\n\n\u201cThe book was entitled _The Set of Emeralds_, and I signed it with my\ninitials only.\n\n\u201cSince I am not Victor Hugo, nor anybody of the sort, I need not tell\nyou that I did not get for my novel what the author of _Notre Dame de\nParis_ had for his latest; but what with one thing and another I\ngathered together a sufficient sum to begin my plan of campaign.\n\n\u201cThe emeralds in question would be worth from fourteen to fifteen\nthousand dollars, and toward the purchase I now counted up the\nrespectable sum of one hundred and fifty. It was necessary, then, to\ngame.\n\n\u201cI gamed; and I gamed with such good sense and good fortune that in a\nsingle night I won what I needed.\n\n\u201cApropos of gambling, I have made an observation in which every day has\nconfirmed me more and more. If one puts down his money with the full\nexpectation of winning, he wins. One must not approach the green table\nwith the hesitancy of a man who is going to try his luck, but with the\ncoolness of him who comes to take his own. For myself, I can assure you\nthat I should have been as much surprised to lose that night as if a\nsubstantial bank had refused me money on a check with Rothschild\u2019s\nsignature.\n\n\u201cThe next day I went to Samper\u2019s. Will you believe that in throwing down\nupon the jeweller\u2019s counter that handful of many-colored notes, those\nnotes which represented for me at least a year of pleasure, many\nbeautiful women, a journey to Italy, and champagne and cigars at\ndiscretion, that I wavered a moment? Then don\u2019t believe it. I threw them\ndown with the same nonchalance--do I say nonchalance?--with the same\nsatisfaction with which Buckingham, breaking the thread on which they\nwere strung, strewed with pearls the carpet of his beloved\u2019s palace.\n\n\u201cI bought the jewels and carried them to my lodgings. You can picture\nnothing more glorious than that set of emeralds. No wonder the women\nsigh now and then as they pass in front of those shops which present to\ntheir eyes such glittering temptations; no wonder that Mephistopheles\nselected a collar of precious stones as the object most likely to seduce\nMarguerite. I, man that I am, could have wished for an instant to live\nin the Orient and be one of those fabulous monarchs who wreathe their\nbrows with a coil of gold and gems, that I might adorn myself with those\nmagnificent emerald leaves and diamond flowers.\n\n\u201cA gnome, to buy a kiss from a sylph, would not have been able to find\namong the immense treasures hoarded in the avaricious heart of the earth\nand known to those elves alone, an emerald larger, clearer, more\nbeautiful than that which sparkled, fastening a knot of rubies, in the\ncentre of the diadem.\n\n\u201cNow that I had the gems, I began to think out a way of placing them in\npossession of the woman for whom they were intended.\n\n\u201cAt the end of several days, I prevailed upon one of her maids--thanks\nto the money that I still had left--to promise me that she, when\nunobserved, would place the set in the jewel-box; and to assure myself\nthat she should not, by her conduct, betray the source of the gift, I\ngave her what money was left over, several hundred dollars, on condition\nthat she, as soon as she had put the emeralds in the place agreed upon,\nshould leave the capital and remove to Barcelona. This, in fact, she\ndid.\n\n\u201cJudge for yourself what must have been the surprise of her mistress\nwhen, after noticing her sudden disappearance and suspecting that\nperhaps she had fled from the house with something stolen, she found in\nthe jewel-box the magnificent set of emeralds. Who had divined her\nthought? Who had been able to surmise that she still, from time to time,\nremembered those gems with a sigh?\n\n\u201cThe weeks and the months passed on. I knew that she kept my gift; I\nknew that great efforts had been made to discover whence it came; and\nyet I had never seen her adorned with it.--Did she scorn the offering?\n\u2018Ah!\u2019 I said, \u2018if she knew all the merit of that gift! if she knew that\nits desert is scarcely surpassed by the gift of that lover who pawned\nhis cloak in winter to buy a nosegay! Does she perhaps think that it\ncomes from the hands of some great personage who will one day present\nhimself, if admitted, to claim its price? What a mistake she makes!\u2019\n\n\u201cOne night when there was to be a royal ball I stationed myself at the\ndoor of the palace and, lost in the crowd, waited for her carriage that\nI might see her. When it arrived and, the footman opening the door, she\nappeared in radiant beauty, a murmur of admiration went up from among\nthe pressing multitude. The women beheld her with envy; the men with\nlonging; from me there broke a low, involuntary cry. She was wearing the\nset of emeralds.\n\n\u201cThat night I went to bed without my supper; I do not remember whether\nit was because emotion had taken away my appetite or because I had no\nmoney. In either case, I was happy. In my dreams I thought I heard the\nmusic of the ball and saw her crossing before my eyes, flashing sparks\nof a thousand colors, until I dreamed even that I was dancing with her.\n\n\u201cThe romance of the emeralds had been conjectured, since they had been\ntalked about when they first appeared in the cabinet, by some ladies of\nrank.\n\n\u201cNow that the set had been seen, there was no longer room for doubt, and\nidle tongues began to comment on the affair. She enjoyed a spotless\nreputation. Notwithstanding the dissipation of her husband and his\nneglect of her, calumny could never reach to the height on which her\nvirtue had placed her; but yet, on this occasion, there began to stir\nthat little breath of gossip from which, according to Don Basilio,\nscandal begins.\n\n\u201cOn a day when I chanced to be in a circle of young men, the\nconversation fell on the famous emeralds, and finally a coxcomb said, as\nif settling the matter:\n\n\u201cThere is no need of discussion. These jewels have as vulgar an origin\nas all such presents in this world of ours. The time has gone by when\ninvisible spirits placed marvellous gifts under the pillows of lovely\nladies, and the man who makes a present of this value makes it with the\nhope of a recompense--and this recompense, who knows that it was not\ngiven in advance?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe words of that idiot roused my wrath, and all the more because they\nfound response in those who heard them. Yet I controlled myself. What\nright had I to go to the defence of that woman?\n\n\u201cNot a quarter of an hour had passed when I had opportunity to\ncontradict this man who had insulted her. I do not know exactly what the\npoint was on which I contradicted him; what I can assure you of is that\nI did it with so much sharpness, not to say rudeness, that out of our\ndispute grew a quarrel. That is what I was seeking.\n\n\u201cMy friends, knowing my disposition, wondered, not only that I should\nhave sought a duel for so trifling a cause, but at my firm refusal to\ngive or receive explanations of any kind.\n\n\u201cI fought, I do not know whether to say with good fortune or not, for\nalthough on firing I saw my adversary sway an instant and fall to the\nground, a second after I felt my ears buzzing and my eyes clouding over.\nI was wounded, too, and seriously, in the breast.\n\n\u201cThey carried me, already in a burning fever, to my mean lodging. There\nI know not how many days went by, while I called aloud I know not on\nwhom; undoubtedly on her. I would have had courage to suffer in silence\nall my life for one look of gratitude on the brink of the grave; but to\ndie without leaving her even a memory of me!\n\n\u201cThese ideas were tormenting my imagination one wakeful, fevered night,\nwhen I saw the curtains of my alcove part and in the opening appeared a\nwoman. I thought that I was dreaming; but no. That woman approached my\nbed, that poor, hot bed on which I was tossing in pain, and lifting the\nveil which covered her face, disclosed a tear trembling on her long,\ndark lashes. It was she!\n\n\u201cI started up with frightened eyes, I started up and--at that moment I\narrived in front of Dur\u00e1n\u2019s bookstore--\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d I exclaimed, interrupting my friend on hearing that change of\ntone. \u201cThen you were not wounded and in bed?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn bed!--ah! what the deuce! I had forgotten to tell you that all this\nis what I was thinking as I came from the jewelry shop of Samper,--where\nin sober truth I saw the set of emeralds and heard, on the lips of a\nbeautiful woman, the exclamation which I have mentioned to you,--to the\n_Carrera de San Jer\u00f3nimo_, where a thrust from the elbow of a porter\nroused me from my revery in front of Dur\u00e1n\u2019s, in whose window I observed\na book by Mery with this title, _Histoire de ce qui n\u2019est pas arriv\u00e9_,\n\u2018The Story of that which did not happen.\u2019 Do you understand it now?\u201d\n\nOn hearing this _d\u00e9nouement_, I could not repress a shout of laughter.\nReally I do not know of what Mery\u2019s book may treat, but I now see how,\nwith that title, a million incomparable stories might be written.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TAVERN OF THE CATS\n\n\nIn Seville, at the half-way point of the road that runs from the\nMacarena gate to the convent of San Jer\u00f3nimo, there is, among other\nfamous taverns, one which, because of its location and the special\nfeatures that attach to it, may be said to have been, if it is not now,\nthe _real thing_, the most characteristic of all the Andalusian roadside\ninns.\n\nPicture to yourself a little house, white as the driven snow, under its\nroof of tiles, some reddish, some deep green, with an endless growth of\nyellow mustard and sprigs of mignonette springing up among them. A\nwooden overhang shadows the door, which has on either side a bench of\ncemented brick. Mortised into the wall, which is broken by various\nlittle casements, opened at caprice to give light to the interior, some\nlower, some higher, one square, another imitating a Moorish arched\nwindow with its dividing colonnettes, or a dormer, are seen at regular\ndistances iron spikes and rings for hitching the horses. A vine, full of\nyears, which twists its blackening stems in and out of the sustaining\nwooden lattice, clothing it with clusters of grapes and broad green\nleaves, covers like a canopy the guest-hall, that consists of three pine\nbenches, half a dozen rickety rush chairs, and as many as six or seven\ncrippled tables made of ill-joined boards. On one side of the house\nclimbs a honeysuckle, clinging to the cracks in the wall, up to the\nroof, from whose eaves droop sprays that sway with the wind, like\nfloating curtains of verdure. On the other side runs a fence of wattled\ntwigs, defining the bounds of a little garden that looks like a basket\nof rushes overflowing with flowers. The tops of two great trees,\ntowering up behind the tavern, form the dark background against which\nstand out its white chimneys; the decoration is completed by the\norchard-plots full of century-plants and blackberries, the broom that\ngrows on the borders of the river, and the Guadalquivir, which flows\ninto the distance, slowly winding its tortuous way between those rural\nbanks to the foot of the ancient convent of San Jer\u00f3nimo, that peers\nabove the thick olive groves surrounding it and traces the black\nsilhouette of its towers against a transparent, azure sky.\n\nImagine this landscape animated by a multitude of figures--men, women,\nchildren and animals, forming groups that vie with one another in the\ncharacteristic and the picturesque; here the innkeeper, round and ruddy,\nseated in the sun on a low chair, rolling between his hands the tobacco\nto make a cigarette, with the paper in his mouth; there a huckster of\nMacarena who sings, rolling up his eyes, to the accompaniment of his\nguitar, while others beat time by clapping their hands or striking their\nglasses on the tables; over yonder a group of peasant girls with their\ngauzy kerchiefs of a million colors, and a whole flower-pot of pinks in\ntheir hair, who play the tambourine, and scream, and laugh, and talk at\nthe top of their voices as they push like mad the swing hung between two\ntrees; and the serving-boys of the tavern who come and go with trays of\nwine-glasses full of manzanilla and with plates of olives; and the group\nof village people who swarm in the road; two drunken fellows quarrelling\nwith a dandy who is making love, in passing, to a pretty girl; a cock\nthat, proudly spreading out its wings, crows from the thatch of the\npoultry-yard; a dog that barks at the boys who tease him with sticks and\nstones; olive-oil boiling and bubbling in the pan where fish is frying;\nthe cracking of the whips of the cab-drivers who arrive in a cloud of\ndust; a din of songs, castanets, peals of laughter, voices, whistles and\nguitars, and blows on the tables, and clappings, and crash of breaking\npitchers, and thousands of strange, discordant sounds forming a jocund\nhullabaloo impossible to describe. Fancy all this on a pleasant calm\nafternoon, the afternoon of one of the most beautiful days in Andalusia\nwhere all the days are so beautiful, and you will have an idea of the\nspectacle that presented itself for the first time to my eyes, when, led\nby its fame, I came to visit that celebrated tavern.\n\nThis was many years ago; ten or twelve, at least. I was there as a\nstranger, away from my natural environment, and everything about me,\nfrom the cut of my clothes to the astonished expression of my face, was\nout of keeping with that picture of frank and boisterous jollity. It\nseemed to me that the passers-by turned their heads to stare at me with\nthe dislike with which one regards an intruder.\n\nNot wishing to attract attention nor choosing that my appearance should\nbe made the butt of mockeries more or less dissembled, I took a seat at\none side of the tavern door, called for something to drink, which I did\nnot drink, and when all had forgotten my alien presence, I drew out a\nsheet of sketching paper from the portfolio which I carried with me,\nsharpened a pencil, and began to look about for a characteristic figure\nto copy and preserve as a souvenir of that day.\n\nSoon my eyes fastened on one of the girls forming the merry group around\nthe swing. She was tall, slender, brunette, with sleepy eyes, big and\nblack, and hair blacker than her eyes. While I was making the sketch a\ngroup of men, among them one who played lively flourishes on the guitar\nwith much skill, chorused songs that alluded to personal qualities, the\nsecrets of love, the likings of the girls who were sporting about the\nswing or stories of their jealousy and their disdain,--songs to which\nthese in their turn responded with others no less saucy, piquant and\ngay.\n\nThe slender brunette, quick of wit, whom I had chosen for model, led the\nsinging of the women, composing the quatrains and reciting them to her\ncompanions who greeted them with clapping and laughter, while the\nguitar-player seemed to be the leader of the lads and the one eminent\namong them all for his cleverness and ready retorts.\n\nFor my part, it did not take me long to understand that between these\ntwo there was a feeling of affection which betrayed itself in their\nsongs, full of transparent allusions and enamoured phrases.\n\nWhen I finished my drawing, night was beginning to fall. Already there\nhad been lighted in the tower of the cathedral the two lanterns of the\nshrine of the bells, and their lustres seemed like fiery eyes from that\ngiant of brick and mortar which dominates all the city. The groups were\ngoing, melting away little by little and disappearing up the road in the\ndim twilight silvered by the moon, that now began to show against the\nviolet dusk of the sky. The girls went singing away together, and their\nclear, bright voices gradually lessened until they became but a part of\nthe other indistinct and distant sounds that trembled in the air. All\nwas over at once,--the day, the jollity, the animation and the impromptu\nfestival; and of all there remained only an echo in the ear and in the\nsoul, like the softest of vibrations, like a sweet drowsiness such as\none experiences on waking from a pleasant dream.\n\nWhen the last loiterers were gone, I folded my drawing, placed it safely\nin the portfolio, called the waiter with a hand-clap, paid my trifling\naccount, and was just on the point of departing when I felt myself\ncaught gently by the arm. It was the young guitar-player whom I had\nnoticed before and who while I was drawing had often stared at me with\nunusual curiosity. I had not observed that, after the fun was over, he\napproached under some pretext the place where I was sitting in order to\nsee what I was doing that I should be looking so steadily at the woman\nin whom he seemed to have a special interest.\n\n\u201c_Se\u00f1orito_,\u201d he said to me in a tone which he strove to soften as much\nas possible, \u201cI am going to ask you to do me a favor.\u201d\n\n\u201cA favor!\u201d I exclaimed, without comprehending what he could want of me.\n\u201cName it, and if it is in my power, count on it as done.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you give me the picture you have made?\u201d On hearing this, I could\nnot help pausing a moment in perplexity, surprised both by the request,\nrare enough in itself, and by the tone, which baffled me to determine\nwhether it was one of threat or of entreaty. He must have understood my\nhesitation, and he immediately hastened to add:\n\n\u201cI beg it of you for the sake of your mother, for the sake of the woman\nwhom you hold dearest in the world, if you hold any dear; ask of me in\nreturn all that my poverty affords.\u201d\n\nI did not know how to make my way out of this difficulty, I would almost\nhave preferred that it had come in guise of a quarrel, if so I might\nhave kept the sketch of that woman who had so deeply impressed me; but\nwhether it was the surprise of the moment, or my inability to say no to\nanything, the fact is that I opened my portfolio, took out the drawing\nand handed it to him without a word.\n\nTo repeat the lad\u2019s expressions of gratitude, his exclamations as he\ngazed at it anew by the light of the tavern\u2019s metal lamp, the care with\nwhich he folded it to put it away securely in his sash, the offers of\ndevotion he made me, and the extravagant praises with which he cried up\nhis good fortune in that he had met one whom he called, in his clipped\nAndalusian speech, a \u201creg\u2019lar _se\u00f1orito_,\u201d would be a task most\ndifficult, not to say impossible. I will only say that, as the night,\nwhat with one delay and another, was now fully upon us, he insisted,\nwilly-nilly, on going with me to the Macarena gate; and he laid so much\nstress on it, that finally I decided that it would be better to take the\nroad together. The way is very short, but while it lasted he managed to\ntell me from beginning to end all the story of his love.\n\nThe tavern where the merry-making had taken place belonged to his\nfather, who had promised him, when he should marry, an orchard which\nadjoined the house and was part of its holding. As to the girl, the\nobject of his love, whom he described to me with the most vivid colors\nand most picturesque phrases, he told me that her name was Amparo, that\nshe had been brought up in his father\u2019s house from her babyhood, and\nthat it was not known who her parents were. All this and a hundred other\ndetails of less interest he related to me on the way. When he had come\nto the gates of the city he gave me a strong pressure of the hands,\nagain put himself at my service, and made off trolling a song whose\nechoes spread far and wide through the silence of the night. I stood a\nmoment watching him depart. His happiness seemed contagious, and I felt\njoyous with a strange and nameless joy--a reflected joy, if I may say\nso.\n\nHe sang till he could sing no longer. One of his refrains ran thus:\n\n \u201cToo long our separation;\n Soul of my soul thou art,\n The Virgin of Consolation\n On the altar of my heart.\u201d\n\nWhen his voice began to die away, I heard borne on the evening wind\nanother voice, delicate and vibrating, that sounded at a further\ndistance yet. It was she, she who impatiently awaited his coming.\n\nA few days later I left Seville, and many years went by before my\nreturn. I forgot many things which happened to me there, but the memory\nof such happiness, so humble and so content, was never erased from my\nmemory.\n\n\nII.\n\nAs I have said, many years passed after my leaving Seville without my\nforgetting in the least that afternoon whose recollection sometimes\npassed over my imagination like a reviving breeze that cools the heated\nbrow.\n\nWhen chance brought me again to the great city which is called with so\nmuch reason the Queen of Andalusia, one of the things that most\nattracted my attention was the remarkable change effected during my\nabsence. Great buildings, blocks of houses and entire suburbs had risen\nat the magic touch of industry and capital; on every side were\nfactories, public gardens, parks, shady walks, but unhappily many\nvenerable monuments of antiquity had disappeared.\n\nI visited again many proud edifices full of historical and artistic\nmemories; again I wandered and lost my way amid the million turns of the\ncurious suburb of _Santa Cruz_; I surprised in the course of my strolls\nmany new buildings which had been erected I know not how; I missed many\nold ones which had vanished I know not why; and finally I took my way to\nthe bank of the river. The river-bank has ever been in Seville the\nchosen field for my excursions.\n\nAfter I had admired the magnificent panorama which offers itself to the\nview at the point where the iron bridge connects the opposite shores;\nafter I had noticed, with absorbed gaze, the myriad details,--palaces\nand rows of small white houses; after I had passed in review the\ninnumerable ships at anchor in the stream, unfurling to the wind their\nairy pennants of a thousand colors, and when I heard the confused hum of\nthe wharves, where everything breathes activity and movement, I\ntransported myself, following in imagination the river, against its\ncurrent, to San Jer\u00f3nimo.\n\nI remembered that tranquil landscape, reposeful, luminous, where the\nrich vegetation of Andalusia displays without cultivation her natural\ncharms. As if I had been in a boat rowed upstream, again, with memory\u2019s\naid, I saw file by, on one side, the _Cartuja_ [Carthusian convent] with\nits groves and its lofty, slender towers; on the other, the _Barrio de\nlos Humeros_ [the old gypsy quarter], the ancient city walls, half Arab,\nhalf Roman, the orchards with their fences covered with brambles, and\nthe water-wheels shaded by great, isolated trees, and finally, San\nJer\u00f3nimo.--On reaching this point in my imagination, those memories that\nI still cherished of the famous inn rose before me more vividly than\never, and I fancied myself present once again at those peasant\nmerry-makings; I heard the girls singing, as they flew through the air\nin the swing; and I saw the groups of village folk wandering over the\nmeadows, some picnicking, some quarrelling, some laughing, some dancing,\nand all in motion, overflowing with youth, vivacity and glee. There was\nshe, surrounded by her children, now holding herself aloof from the\ngroup of merry girls who were still laughing and singing, and there was\nhe, tranquil and content with his felicity, looking with tenderness at\nthe persons whom he loved best in the world, all together about him and\nall happy,--his wife, his children, his father, who was there as ten\nyears ago, seated at the door of his inn, impassively twisting the paper\nabout his cigarette, without more change than that his head, which then\nwas gray, would now be white as snow.\n\nA friend who accompanied me in the walk, noting the sort of blissful\nrevery in which for several moments I had been rapt with these\nimaginings, shook me at last by the arm, asking:\n\n\u201cWhat are you thinking about?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was thinking,\u201d I replied, \u201cof the Tavern of the Cats, and revolving\nin my mind all the pleasant recollections I cherish of an afternoon when\nI was at San Jer\u00f3nimo.--This very instant I was ending a love story\nwhich I left there well begun, and I ended it so much to my liking that\nI believe there cannot be any other conclusion than that which I have\nmade for it. And speaking of the Tavern of the Cats,\u201d I continued,\nturning to my friend, \u201cwhen shall we take a day and go there for\nluncheon or to enjoy an hour of revel?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn hour of revel!\u201d exclaimed my friend, with an expression of\nastonishment which I did not at that time succeed in explaining to\nmyself, \u201can hour of revel! A very appropriate place it is for that!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why not?\u201d I rejoined, wondering in my turn at his surprise.\n\n\u201cThe reason is very simple,\u201d he told me at last, \u201cfor at one hundred\npaces from the tavern they have laid out the new cemetery\u201d [of San\nFernando].\n\nThen it was I who gazed at him with astonished eyes and remained some\nminutes silent before speaking a single word.\n\nWe returned to the city, and that day went by, and still more days,\nwithout my being able entirely to throw off the impression which news so\nunexpected had made upon me. The more variations I played upon it, still\nthe love story of the brunette had no conclusion, for what I had\ninvented before was not conceivable, since I could not make natural a\npicture of happiness and mirth with a cemetery for a background.\n\nOne afternoon, determined to resolve my doubts, I pleaded a slight\nindisposition as an excuse for not accompanying my friend in our\naccustomed rambles, and I started out alone for the inn. When I had left\nbehind me the Macarena gate and its picturesque suburb and had begun to\ncross by a narrow footpath that labyrinth of orchards, already I seemed\nto perceive something strange in my surroundings.\n\nWhether it was because the afternoon had become a little clouded, or\nthat the tendency of my mind inclined me to melancholy ideas, the fact\nis that I felt cold and sad, and noticed a silence about me which\nreminded me of utter solitude, as sleep reminds us of death.\n\nI walked a little without stopping, crossed the orchards to shorten the\ndistance and came out into the street of San L\u00e1zaro, whence already may\nbe seen in the distance the convent of San Jer\u00f3nimo.\n\nPerhaps it is an illusion, but it seems to me that along the road where\npass the dead even the trees and the vegetation come to take on a\ndifferent color. I fancied there, at least, that warm and harmonious\ntones were lacking,--no freshness in the groves, no atmosphere in space,\nno light upon the earth. The landscape was monotonous; its figures black\nand isolated.\n\nHere was a hearse moving slowly, covered with mourning draperies,\nraising no dust, cracking no whip, without shout to the horses, almost\nwithout movement; further on a man of ill countenance with a spade on\nhis shoulder, or a priest in long, dark robe, or a group of old men\npoorly clad and of repugnant aspect, with extinguished candles in their\nhands, who were returning in silence, with lowered heads, and eyes fixed\non the ground. I believed myself transported I know not whither; for all\nthat I saw reminded me of a landscape whose contours were the same as\never, but whose colors had been, as it were, blotted out, there being\nleft of them merely a vague half-tone. The impression that I experienced\ncan be compared only to that which we feel in those dreams where, by an\ninexplicable phenomenon, things are and are not at one and the same\ntime, and the places in which we believe ourselves to be, partially\ntransform themselves in an eccentric and impossible fashion.\n\nAt last I reached the roadside inn; I recognized it more by the name,\nwhich it still keeps printed in large letters on one of its walls, than\nby anything else; for as to the little house itself, it seemed to me\nthat it had changed even its outlines and its proportions. At once I saw\nthat it was much more ruinous, that it was forsaken and sad. The shadow\nof the cemetery, which rose just beyond it, appeared to fall over it,\nenveloping it in a dark covering, like the cloth laid on the face of the\ndead. The innkeeper was there, utterly alone. I recognized him as the\nsame of ten years back; I recognized him I know not why, for in this\ntime he had aged even to the point of appearing a decrepit old man on\nthe edge of the grave, whereas when I first saw him he seemed fifty,\nabounding in health, satisfaction and vitality.\n\nI sat down at one of the deserted tables; I asked for something to\ndrink, which the innkeeper brought me, and from one detached remark\nafter another we fell finally into continuous conversation relating to\nthat love story of whose last chapter I was still in ignorance, although\nI had several times attempted to divine it.\n\n\u201cEverything,\u201d said the poor old man to me, \u201ceverything seems to have\nconspired against us since the period in which you remember me. You know\nhow it was with us. Amparo was the delight of our eyes; she had been\nreared here from her birth; she was the joy of the house; never could\nshe miss her own parents, for I loved her like a father; my son had\nloved her, too, from his boyhood, first as a brother, afterwards with a\ndevotion greater yet. They were on the eve of marriage; I was ready to\nmake over to them the better part of my modest property, for with the\nprofits of my business it seemed to me that I should have more than\nenough to live at ease, when some evil spirit--I know not what--envied\nour happiness and destroyed it in a moment. In the first place the\nwhisper went about that they were going to locate a cemetery on this\nside of San Jer\u00f3nimo; some said close by, others further off, and while\nwe were all uneasy and anxious, fearing that they might carry out this\nproject, a greater and more certain trouble fell upon us.\n\n\u201cOne day two gentlemen arrived here in a carriage; they put to me\nthousands of questions about Amparo whom I had taken in her babyhood\nfrom the foundling hospital; they asked to see the swaddling-clothes\nwhich she wore when she was abandoned and which I had kept, with the\nfinal result that Amparo proved to be the daughter of a very rich\ngentleman, who went to law to recover her from us and persisted until he\ngained his end. I do not wish even to call to memory the day when they\ntook her away. She wept like a Magdalen, my son would have made a mad\nresistance, I was like one dumfounded, not understanding what was\nhappening to me. She went. Rather, she did not go, for she loved us too\nmuch to go of her own accord, but they carried her off, and a curse fell\nupon the house. My son, after an attack of terrible despair, fell into a\nsort of lethargy. I do not know how to express my own state of mind. I\nbelieved that for me the world had ended.\n\n\u201cWhile these things were going on, they began to lay out the cemetery.\nThe village-folk fled from this neighborhood. There were no more\nfestivals, songs and music; all the merriment of this countryside was\nover, even as the joy of our souls.\n\n\u201cAnd Amparo was no happier than we; bred here in the open air, in the\nbustle and animation of the inn, brought up to be joyous in poverty,\nthey plucked her from this life, and she withered, as wither the flowers\ngathered in a garden to adorn a drawing-room. My son made incredible\nefforts to see her again, to have a moment\u2019s speech with her. All was\nin vain; her family did not wish it. At last he saw her, but he saw her\ndead. The funeral train passed by here. I knew nothing about it and I\ncannot tell why I fell to weeping when I saw her hearse. The heart,\nloyal to love, clamored to me:\n\n\u201c\u2018She is young like Amparo; she, too, must be beautiful; who knows if it\nmay not be herself?\u2019 And it was. My son followed the train, entered the\nenclosure and, when the coffin was opened, uttered a cry and fell\nsenseless to the ground; and so they brought him back to me. Afterwards\nhe went mad, and is now a lunatic.\u201d\n\nWhen the poor old man had reached this point in his narrative, there\nentered the inn two gravediggers of sinister bearing and repellent look.\nHaving finished their task, they had come to take a drink \u201c_to the\nhealth of the dead_,\u201d as one of them said, accompanying the jest with a\nsilly leer. The innkeeper brushed off a tear with the back of his hand\nand went to serve them.\n\nNight was beginning to fall, a dark night and most gloomy. The sky was\nblack and so was the landscape. From the boughs of the trees still hung,\nhalf rotted, the ropes of the swing swaying in the wind; it reminded me\nof a gallows-rope quivering yet after the body of the felon had been\ntaken down. Only confused noises reached my ears,--the distant barking\nof dogs on guard in the orchards; the creaking of a water-wheel,\nprolonged, melancholy and shrill like a lament; disconnected, horrible\nwords of the gravediggers who were plotting in low tones a sacrilegious\nrobbery--I know not what; my memory has kept of this fantastic scene of\ndesolation as of that other scene of merriment only a confused\nrecollection that I cannot reproduce. What I still seem to hear as I\nheard it then is this refrain intoned in a plaintive voice, suddenly\ndisturbing the silence that reigned about:\n\n \u201cThe coach of the dead was grand\n As it passed our humble door,\n But from it beckoned a pallid hand,\n And I saw my love once more.\u201d\n\nIt was the poor boy, who was locked up in one of the rooms of the inn,\nwhere he passed his days in motionless contemplation of the picture of\nhis beloved, without speaking a word, scarcely eating, never weeping,\nhardly opening his lips save to sing this simple, tender verse enclosing\na poem of sorrow that I then learned to decipher.\n\n\n\n\nALL SOULS\u2019 NIGHT\n\n\nThe gloaming of a misty, melancholy autumn day is succeeded by a cold,\ndark night. For several hours now, the continuous stir of the town seems\nto have ceased.\n\nSome near, others far, some with grave and measured beat and others with\na quick and tremulous vibration, the bells are swinging in their towers,\nflinging out upon the air their metallic notes which float and mingle,\nlessen and die away to yield place to a new rain of sounds pouring\ncontinually from the deep brazen throats as from a spring of\ninexhaustible harmonies.\n\nIt is said that joy is contagious, but I believe that sadness is much\nmore so. There are melancholy spirits who succeed in eluding the\nintoxication of delight that our great popular festivals carry in their\natmosphere. It is hard to find one who is able to bear unaffected the\nicy touch of the atmosphere of sorrow, if this comes to seek us in the\nprivacy of our own fireside,--comes in the wearisome, slow vibration of\nthe bell that is like a grieving voice, uttering its tale of troubles at\none\u2019s very ear.\n\nI cannot hear the bells, even when they ring out merry peals as for a\nfestival, without having my soul possessed by a sentiment of\ninexplicable and involuntary sadness. In the great capitals, by good or\nevil hap, the confused murmur of the multitude which beats on every\nsense, full of the noisy giddiness of action, ordinarily drowns the\nclamor of the bells to such a degree as to make one believe it does not\nexist. To me at least it seems that on All Souls\u2019 Night, the only night\nof the year when I hear them, the towers of the Madrid\n\n[Illustration: A RUINED CLOISTER]\n\nchurches, thanks to a miracle, regain their voices, breaking for a few\nhours only their long silence. Whether it be that my imagination,\npredisposed to melancholy thoughts, aids in producing this effect, or\nthat the novelty of the sound strikes me the more profoundly; always\nwhen I perceive, borne on the wind, the separate notes of this harmony,\na strange phenomenon takes place in my senses. I think that I\ndistinguish the different voices of the bells one from another; I think\nthat each of them has its own tone and expresses a special feeling; I\nthink, in fine, that after lending for some time profound attention to\nthe discordant combination of sounds, deep or shrill, dull or silvery,\nwhich they breathe forth, I succeed in surprising mysterious words that\npalpitate upon the air enveloped in its prolonged vibrations.\n\nThese words without connection, without meaning, that float in space\naccompanied by sighs scarcely perceptible and by long sobs, commence to\nreunite one with another as the vague ideas of a dream combine on\nwaking, and reunited, they form an immense, dolorous poem, in which each\nbell chants its strophe, and all together interpret by means of symbolic\nsounds the dumb thought that seethes in the brain of those who harken,\nplunged in profound meditation.\n\nA bell of hollow, deafening tone, swinging heavily in its lofty tower\nwith ceremonial slowness, that seems to have a mathematical rhythm and\nmoves by some perfect mechanism, says in peals punctiliously adjusted to\nthe ritual:\n\n\u201cI am the empty sound that melts away without having made vibrate a\nsingle one of the infinite chords of feeling in the heart of man. I bear\nin my echoes neither sobs nor sighs. I perform correctly my part in the\nlugubrious, aerial symphony of grief, my sonorous strokes never falling\nbehind nor going in advance by a single second. I am the bell of the\nparish church, the official bell of funeral honors. My voice proclaims\nthe mourning of etiquette; my voice laments from the heights of the\nbelfry announcing to the neighborhood the fatality, groan by groan; my\nvoice, which sorrows at so much a sob, releases the rich heir and the\nyoung widow from other cares than those of the formalities attending the\nreading of the will, and the orders for elegant mourning.\n\n\u201cAt my peal the artisans of death come out of their atrophy: the\ncarpenter hastens to adorn with gold braid the most comfortable of his\ncoffins; the marble worker strikes in his chisel seeking a new allegory\nfor the ostentatious sepulchre; even the horses of the grotesque hearse,\ntheatre of the last triumph of vanity, proudly shake their antique tufts\nof flywing-colored plumes, while the pillars of the church are wound\nabout with black baize, the traditional catafalque is set up under the\ndome, and the choir-master rehearses on the violin a new _Dies Irae_ for\nthe last mass of the _Requiem_.\n\n\u201cI am the grief of tinsel tears, of paper flowers and of distichs in\nletters of gold.\n\n\u201cTo-day it is my duty to commemorate my fellow-countrymen, the\nillustrious dead for whom I mourn officially, and on doing this with all\nthe pomp and all the noise befitting their social position, my only\nregret is that I cannot utter one by one their names, titles and\ndecorations; perchance this new formula would be a comfort to their\nfamilies.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the measured hammering of the heavy bell ceases an instant and its\ndistant echo, blent with the cloud of tones that the wind carries away,\nis lost, there begins to be heard the sad, uneven, piercing melody of a\nlittle clapper-bell.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am,\u201d it says, \u201cthe voice that sings the joys and bewails the sorrows\nof the village which I dominate from my spire; I am the humble bell of\nthe hamlet, that calls down with ardent petitions water from heaven upon\nthe parched fields, the bell that with its pious conjurations puts the\nstorms to flight, the bell that whirls, quivering with emotion, and in\nwild outcries pleads for succour when fire is devouring the crops.\n\n\u201cI am the friendly voice that bids the poor his last farewell; I am the\ngroan that grief chokes in the throat of the orphan and that mounts on\nthe winged notes of the bell to the throne of the Father of Mercies.\n\n\u201cOn hearing my melody, a prayer breaks involuntarily from the lip, and\nmy last echo goes to breathe itself away on the brink of hidden\ngraves--an echo borne by the wind that seems to pray in a low voice as\nit waves the tall grass that covers them.\n\n\u201cI am the weeping that scalds the cheeks; I am the woe that dries the\nfount of tears; I am the anguish that presses on the heart with an iron\nhand; I am the supreme sorrow, the sorrow of the forsaken and forlorn.\n\n\u201cTo-day I toll for that nameless multitude which passes through life\nunheeded, leaving no more trace behind than the broad stream of sweat\nand tears that marks its course; to-day I toll for those who sleep in\nearth forgotten, without other monument than a rude cross of wood which,\nperchance, is hidden by the nettles and the spear-plume thistles, but\namid their leaves arise these humble, yellow-petaled flowers that the\nangels sow over the graves of the just.\u201d\n\nThe echo of the clapper-bell grows fainter little by little till it is\nlost amid the whirlwind of tones, above which are distinguished the\ncrashing, broken strokes of one of those gigantic bells which set\nshuddering, as they sound, even the deep foundations of the ancient\nGothic cathedrals in whose towers we see them suspended.\n\n\u201cI am,\u201d says the bell with its terrible, stentorian peal, \u201cthe voice of\nthe stupendous mass of stone which your forefathers raised for the\namazement of the ages. I am the mysterious voice familiar to the\nlong-robed virgins, the angels, the kings and the marble prophets who\nkeep watch by night and by day at the church doors, enveloped in the\nshadows of their arches. I am the voice of the misshapen monsters, of\nthe griffins and prodigious reptiles that crawl among the intertwined\nstone leaves along the spires of the towers. I am the phantasmal bell of\ntradition and of legend that swings alone on All Souls\u2019 Night, rung by\nan invisible hand.\n\n\u201cI am the bell of fearsome folk-tales, stories of ghosts and souls in\npain,--the bell whose strange and indescribable vibration finds an echo\nonly in ardent imaginations.\n\n\u201cAt my voice, knights armed with all manner of arms rise from their\nGothic sepulchres; monks come forth from the dim vaults in which they\nare sleeping their last sleep to the foot of their abbey altars; and the\ncemeteries open their gates little by little to let pass the troops of\nyellow skeletons that run nimbly to dance in giddy round about the\npointed spire which shelters me.\n\n\u201cWhen my tremendous clamor surprises the credulous old woman before the\nantique shrine whose lights she tends, she believes that she sees for a\nmoment the spirits of the picture dance amid the vermilion and ochre\nflames by the glimmer of the dying lantern.\n\n\u201cWhen my mighty vibrations accompany the monotonous recital of an\nold-time fable to which the children, grouped about the hearth, listen\nall absorbed, the tongues of red and blue fire that glide along the\nglowing logs, and the fiery sparks that leap up against the obscure\nbackground of the kitchen, are taken for spirits circling in the air,\nand the noise of the wind shaking the doors, for the work of souls\nknocking at the leaded panes of the windows with the fleshless knuckles\nof their bony hands.\n\n\u201cI am the bell that prays to God for the souls condemned to hell; I am\nthe voice of superstitious terror; I cause not weeping, but rising of\nthe hair, and I carry the chill of fright to the marrow of his bones who\nharkens to me.\u201d\n\nSo one after another, or all at once, the bells go pealing on, now as\nthe musical theme that rises clearly above the full orchestra in a grand\nsymphony, now as a fantasia that lingers and recedes, dilating on the\nwind.\n\nOnly the daylight and the noises that come up from the heart of the town\nat the first dawn can put to flight the strange abortions of the mind\nand the doleful, persistent tolling of the bells, which even in sleep is\nfelt as an exhausting nightmare through the eternal _Noche de Difuntos_.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n [1] To the posthumous edition of Becquer\u2019s _Works_, Se\u00f1or Correa\n prefixed an account of the poet\u2019s life. This, brief and often\n indefinite as it is, remains the authentic biography. It has been\n partially reproduced in English by Mrs. Humphry Ward, who published\n in _Macmillan\u2019s Magazine_, February, 1883, pp. 305-320, a valuable\n article entitled: _A Spanish Romanticist: Gustavo Becquer_. Professor\n Olmsted of Cornell, in his recent class-room edition of selected\n _Legends, Tales and Poems_ by Becquer (Ginn and Company, Boston,\n 1907) contributes additional facts gathered from Spanish periodical\n articles--of which he gives a bibliography--and in conversation with\n Spaniards who had known the poet.\n\n [2] Of the seventy-six poems that make up the _Rimas_, thirty-two\n are given in literal English rendering by Lucy White Jennison (\u201cOwen\n Innsley\u201d) as the third section of her _Love Songs and Other Poems_\n (The Grafton Press, New York, 1883), and a few are similarly rendered\n by Mrs. Humphry Ward in the article already mentioned. A complete\n translation in English verse, by Jules Renard of Seattle, has just\n come (1908) from The Gorham Press, Richard G. Badger, Boston.\n\n [3] Not, to my knowledge, translated into English.\n\n [4] Except for a few magazine waifs and strays, usually in abridged\n form, and for seven out of the twelve stories in W. W. Gibbings\u2019\n _Terrible Tales_, where the translation, according to Professor\n Olmsted, is \u201coften inaccurate,\u201d these legends have not before been\n translated into English. The twenty-one here given include everything\n even remotely in the nature of a tale contained in the three volumes,\n with the exception of the two East Indian legends already mentioned,\n and the two witchcraft tales in _From My Cell_. Good as these witch\n stories are, it seemed a pity to take them out of their context.\n What might be considered further omission is noted later. Of the\n translations in this volume, several have appeared in _Short Stories_,\n two in _The Churchman_, and one in the _Boston Evening Transcript_.\n\n [5] And therefore has not been included in this volume.\n\n [6] Not included in this volume because it should not be taken from\n its context.","title":"Romantic legends of Spain","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":88702}