"Can this be true?" we asked in perplexity.

"It is indeed," laughed Delormais. "So you see I cannot be made a bishop, for I am one already; though not duly enthroned. You will have to be present at that ceremony. I am not surprised. I knew it was coming, though I could not tell the exact day and hour. It reached me only this evening. And you are the first to whom I have told it."

"Then," we replied, rising and making him a profound bow, "let us be the first to greet you by your t.i.tle, _Monseigneur_. The first to wish you all honour and success in that high office Heaven has destined you to fill."

"Nay," he returned; "Monseigneur to others it may be; but to you it shall be ever _mon ami_. For with your permission I intend our acquaintance to ripen into friendship. You shall come and visit the old Bishop in his palace. We will make it a shining light together. The oftener you come, the longer you stay, the more welcome you will be. You know that X. is surrounded by antiquities, endless monuments of interest. Amidst these attractions you will feel at home. Your visits will not be a mere sacrifice to friendship."

"You are sketching a delightful picture. Will it ever be realised?"

"That only depends upon yourself," laughed Delormais. "The Bishop has not to be made, nor the palace to be built; the guest-chamber awaits you with the blue skies and balmy airs of spring. Of all appointments it is the one I would have chosen. A life of activity, of responsibility and usefulness; a wide sphere of action; opportunities for doing much good in public, still more in private. The latter brings the greater blessing."

"You are a wonderful man," we could not help exclaiming. "Your life ought to be written. We should love to make it known to the world."

"You shall become my biographer," laughed Delormais, "if you will undertake it in French. Do what you will with what I have told you to-night. Only keep to yourself all my ecclesiastical history. That is sacred and private, at any rate as long as I am living. For the rest, change names and dates only sufficiently to prevent recognition. Not that it would matter. My life is my own, as I have said. And not that I have anything to conceal. My faults, follies and indiscretions have been those of impulse; of the head, not of the heart, I would fain believe. I cannot remember the time when I did not at least wish to do well. Of evil men and deliberate sin I have ever had a wholesome horror. But all and everything by G.o.d's grace, not of my own strength."

At that moment we were startled by a cry in the street: the well-known call of El sereno.

"Another watchman," cried Delormais. "What is the hour?"

We had not thought of time. A few months earlier and the sun would long have been up. Want of s.p.a.ce prevents our giving more than a mere outline of Delormais' life. He filled in an infinite number of details impossible to be recorded here. They would swell to a volume, but a volume of singular interest. He spoke rapidly and with few pauses. Our watches marked the hour of five. It was that period of the night when darkness is greatest before dawn. The watchman's voice cried the hour and the starry night for the last time.

"For your own sake I must break up the a.s.sembly," laughed Delormais.

"Two hours' sleep will refresh us both. Presently we shall meet again.

See! our candles wax dim and blue--or is it fancy? This is a ghostly house, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I can tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past and played out their comedies and tragedies together. As we are playing ours."

We parted. Sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. In our dreams we lived over again all the scenes Delormais had so graphically described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. We wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of Arouyas. Our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. Life was one long poem; time had pa.s.sed into eternity. From such celestial regions we were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by Jose bearing hot water. The latter had const.i.tuted himself our _criado_ or _valet de chambre_.

"Senor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. Our astronomer has proved a false prophet. My heart bleeds for him. I fear his glory has departed.

Heaven send he does not commit suicide. Is it you, senor, who have influenced the stars against him?"

"Monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet rose with the lark--figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the lark rises in November? Taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella shouldered a la militaire. For a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on a very defiant air, as if, like Don Quixote, he had a mind to fight with windmills. He told me he was inflated with inspiration. He was going to contemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel, and to write a sonnet to the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I confess I should have thought the eyes a finer theme. Joseph tells me it was the Senorita Costello. She is considered the great beauty of Gerona; and even in Madrid, I am told, created a profound sensation. No wonder the susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. Now, senor, we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. His reverence, Pere Delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have slept. I have just taken his coffee also. Contrary to his usual custom, though wide awake he was still reposing. Ah! what a great character we have there!"

Upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace.

It was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold winds departed, summer reigning once more. How changed the aspect of Gerona. How all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light and shadow, under the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we left the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago under the stars.

It almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since then. This morning everything was bright and animated. The river now flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. The old houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed warmed into life. They now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful.

The towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the blue sky. The very air seemed full of sun-flashes. In the boulevard the trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Every one seemed to rejoice and expand. No people are so responsive to atmosphere as the Spanish.

Warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. They are hot-house plants.

Towards ten o'clock we made our way up the street of steps to the barracks. The scene was much the same as yesterday; conscription was not yet over. We were evidently expected, and a sentry at once conducted us to the colonel's office.

"I knew you would come," he cried, with quite an English handshake.

"Your interests are not of the b.u.t.terfly nature, pa.s.sing with the moment. And see; here is our disconsolate widow. Now you have come, we will talk to her."

We easily recognised the forlorn mother of yesterday's little drama. She was quietly seated in a chair, her mantilla drawn closely about her, a pathetic image of grief.

"Oh, senor Colonel, it is useless," she said. "Hope is dead and my heart broken. Heaven has seen fitting to afflict me at all points. I have lost my husband, my position; I am poor and in misery; my eldest son turns out a disgrace; my remaining consolation is torn from me by the cruel conscription. Nothing is left for me but to die."

"This is quite wrong," returned the colonel, pretending a severity he did not feel. "Heaven is merciful. Brighter days will dawn for you if you are patient. You will see that conscription is a blessing, not a curse. It will make a man of your boy. Discipline is good for all. It is just what he needed. He will return to you strong and vigorous; able and willing to make a home for you. I promise to make him my special charge.

He shall be always about me. I will give him all the favour possible, and will keep a constant eye upon him. Heaven permitting, he shall return to you, not spoilt or lowered, but mentally and physically improved. In the meantime--I have been making enquiries--I have found you a position where you can honourably earn your living; where you will be comfortable and respected; and if you will only look at the best side of things, happy also. What do you say to it?"

Here he described the nature of the proposed occupation. The poor lady burst into tears.

"Heaven reproves me for my ingrat.i.tude by showering mercies upon me,"

she cried. "Hope once more kindles within me. This is the one thing for which I am fitted. Ah, colonel! it is you who have brought back life and hope to my despairing heart."

"Nay," he returned, "I am merely the humble instrument, as we all are, carrying out the purposes of Heaven. But I exact one thing of you. Cease to be sad: let hope and energy return; carry out your daily tasks heartily; and make up your mind that life still has much in store for you."

The change was already apparent. A drooping, grief-stricken woman had entered the office; one with hope and energy and patient waiting revived left it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SAN FILIU, FROM WITHOUT THE WALLS: GERONA.]

"Life is full of such sorrows," said the colonel. "Unfortunately we cannot reach a millionth part of them. In this case help has been made strangely easy. It is so seldom that the wish to aid and the power go together. Let us now take a turn in your favourite cloisters."

Reposing under the blue skies, in the strong light and shade thrown by the sunshine, they were even more beautiful and effective than yesterday. In presence of their colonel, the men kept at a respectful distance. They were all occupied in the same way; drawing water from the well, mending clothes, running to and fro; some diligently doing nothing. All seemed happy and contented.

"And they are so," said the colonel. "To a large number the change is infinitely better in every way. They all find their own level. Those of the better cla.s.s discover each other, soon fraternise, and form themselves into cliques. Youth is the age of friendship and enthusiasm.

Even these have their popes and go in for hero-worship. Life has its charms for them. Yes," looking around, "no doubt these cloisters have a beauty of their own. They influence me more to-day than ever before. I think you would convert me in time," he laughed; "widen my interests and enlarge my sympathies. You see, to me they are mere military barracks.

The men come first, and you will admit that they are not romantic. Plant these cloisters in the midst of a desert, and no doubt I should be duly impressed with their refined atmosphere."

We left them and stood at the head of the long flight of steps, admiring the picturesque scene. To-day everything was radiant with light and sunshine. The very crowd outside the Conscription-house looked more hopeful. Even misfortune was less depressing under such blue skies. The wonderful houses to our right, in their deep lights and shadows, looked more rare and more artistic than ever. The ancient red roofs of the town sloping downwards were deep and glowing. Many a gable stood out vividly, many a dormer window and lattice pane seemed on fire as it reflected in crimson flashes the rays of the ascending sun.

We reluctantly said good-bye to our colonel. These pa.s.sing episodes, possessing all the charm of the unexpected, are one of the delights of travel. But they leave behind them a regret, for too often there can be no renewal of the intimacy. Yet we realise that the world holds many pleasant people, and that life is too short for all its possibilities.

"If you ever visit Gerona again," he said, with a final hand-shake, "you will come and see me. If I am no longer quartered here, find out where I am, send me a telegram, and follow quickly. May we meet again!"

Then we took our winding way up to the cathedral.

The fine square was in full sunshine. Deep lights and shadows lay upon cathedral and palace. The house in which Alvarez once lived looked as though human tragedy had never touched it. A golden glow lay on the grey stone, restoring its lost youth. The ancient windows with their wonderful ironwork, seemed kindled into life, ready to reveal a thousand secrets of the dead-and-gone centuries. There was no gloom and mystery to-day. The long, magnificent flight of steps were in full sunshine also. Sunshine lay upon the town with its cl.u.s.tering roofs; flashed here and there upon the surface of the winding river; gilded the snow-tops of the far-off Pyrenees. The skies were blue and laughing; all nature was radiant.

We pa.s.sed through the west doorway into the cathedral.

Even here there was a change. The dim religious light might still be felt; nothing could take that away. A sense of vastness and grandeur still lay upon the splendid nave; a feeling of mystery still haunted pillars and aisles and arches, and the deep recesses of the east end.

But to-day shafts of wonderful light flowed in, redeeming all from the faintest suspicion of gloom. Rainbow-coloured beams from the upper windows fell athwart the nave in rich prismatic streams. Beautiful as the interior had been yesterday, it was yet more so this morning. These shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness created a marvellous effect of contrast, adding infinitely to the charm of the lovely building.

There was no mistaking the tall slender figure that approached us with its quiet grace. It was Anselmo, his face lighted up with its rare smile.

"We meet again," he said, in tones subdued to the sacred spot on which we stood. "And yesterday I know that you met and conversed with Rosalie.

As we went together this morning to the bedside of a dear maiden whose days are numbered, she told me of your encounter. I am glad. Now you know us both and will keep us together in your memory. You must have seen that she is more angel than woman walking the earth. I often wonder how all her deep affection, purified and exalted, can be given to one so unworthy. You smile! You think ours a strange history, we a singular pair. I suppose it is so. Ours must be almost a unique experience; and I believe that to few in this world is given the peace and happiness we enjoy."

Talking, we pa.s.sed on to the cloisters, lovelier than ever in their brilliant light and shade. Once more we went through the north doorway and gazed down upon San Pedro, the desecrated church, the ancient town walls, and ruined citadel crowning the slopes. Sunshine everywhere; hope upon all; the gloomy skies of yesterday forgotten; earth seemed many degrees nearer heaven. We climbed down into the narrow streets and found Miguel at his door waiting to give us a morning salutation.

"The photograph, senor. Is it a success?"

We told him that still lay in the uncertain future.

Again we found ourselves seated upon the ruined citadel. It was difficult to realise all the horrors of that long past invasion under the influence of these glorious skies, the gladness of this laughing sunshine. The air was scented with wild thyme. The outlines of the towers stood out wonderfully; the blue of heaven shone through the open work of San Filiu's lovely steeple. All the sunshine glinted upon the leaves of the trees in the hollow and traced patterns in the hanging gardens.