"Your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "It throws one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it is not equal to Barcelona."

The old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed.

"You are right," he said; "I cannot contradict you. But then Barcelona is beyond comparison." Here he brightened again. "Let me tell you the difference. Barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels.

It is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it will disappear into the skies again. And then here we shall reign supreme. With all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will, but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial, lasting through the ages. In the days of the Goths there was another building on this very spot. The Moors came and it was turned into a mosque; and when Alonza the Warrior re-took the city the church was reconstructed. This was early in the twelfth century. Here the kings of Aragon were crowned with pomp and ceremony, and here our most important councils have been held. Now come and look at our Moorish tiles."

And again, without pause in his talk, and without ceremony, he led the way. We could only willingly follow through the lovely forest of pillars, crossing one aisle after another, sharing his enthusiasm. We had the whole church to ourselves. The people of Zaragoza seemed too busy to trouble themselves about dreams of architecture.

"Look again," said the old priest, as we stood outside in front of the north wall. "These tiles are very beautiful and remarkable. They are undoubtedly Moorish; the work of Moorish craftsmen. Do you observe the fineness of the colours, the rich deep blue that contrasts so well with the emerald green? You would think the effect of so much colour would be garish, but on the contrary it is quiet and subdued, with great dignity about it. This is quite the oldest part of the exterior. One can only regret that the whole was not tiled, for then we should have possessed a unique building with which to challenge the world. You see there are still evidences of an earlier church than this," and he pointed to certain remains which were unmistakably Romanesque: in the lower part of the apse, the b.u.t.tresses and in one of the windows.

"And there," said the old priest, pointing to an immense building, "is the Bishop's palace, which was sacked and ruined by the French in that terrible war. Since that day much that was interesting in Zaragoza has disappeared; but heaven be praised, we have still our cathedral, and as long as we have that, the rest matters little. And now I must wish you good-morning. It is my hour for breakfast--a very frugal meal with me, consisting chiefly of eggs and sweet herbs. Ah, senor," with a round gurgling laugh, "I see what you are thinking--that eggs and sweet herbs never developed this rotundity of person. You are wrong. I fast twice in the week; I never touch anything stronger than coffee; I have only two simple meals a day; and yet you see how prodigal nature is in her dealings with me. You doubt me? Come with me. I live at a stone's throw.

You shall see my abode and interrogate my old housekeeper, and you will hear how she corroborates my tale."

He led the way, this singular old priest, whom we found not only appreciating the beautiful, but br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with humour: one of those delightfully simple, self-unconscious men, who are all sympathy and amiability. We could but follow: down a small narrow street into a quaint sort of _cul-de-sac_, where we came upon an exquisite trace of Old Zaragoza.

A small fifteenth-century house, with a quaint Gothic doorway, and a window guarded by magnificent iron-work. Touching a hidden spring, this door opened and admitted us into a panelled pa.s.sage that apparently had not been touched for centuries. Then he turned into a wonderful old room, black with panelled oak, some of which was vigorously and splendidly carved.

"This is my living room," he said, "and here I am happy. I live in the past; the fine old fifteenth-century days when men knew how to produce the beautiful and were great in all their ideas. Here I live, and here I hope to die."

He went to the door.

"Juanita!" he called. A distant voice answered, and in a moment a quaint old woman dressed in black appeared upon the scene.

"Juanita, is my breakfast ready?" asked the old priest.

"Si, el canon."

"What have you prepared?"

"Two fried eggs, canonigo, flavoured with sweet herbs; bread, b.u.t.ter and coffee at discretion--as usual."

"You see," laughed the priest. "There is no collusion here! Would that I could ask you to share my frugal meal; but it is emphatically only enough for one--and that an abstemious old canon. Now if you will come and see me this evening or to-morrow, I shall be delighted to receive you. I would even ask you to come and dine with me, but my dinner is as frugal as my dejeuner. Well, for the moment we part; but you will come again."

As we said good-bye, Juanita appeared with her fried eggs, and steaming coffee served in a chaste silver pot that must have been at least a hundred and fifty years old; and the old priest accompanying us to the door, speeded us on our way with true courtesy and an old-fashioned blessing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TOWER OF LA SEO: ZARAGOZA.]

We pa.s.sed from this delightful atmosphere into the modern streets of the city, thinking how little remained of its former traces. For it goes far back in history, even to the days of the Romans, when it was called Caesarea Augusta; a name that in course of ages was transformed to Zaragoza. Early in the first century it was prosperous; a free city possessing its own charters, seat of the a.s.sizes, owning a mint. But of the old Roman city all traces have disappeared. It was one of the first cities to renounce Paganism. Aurelios Prudentius the first Christian poet was born here in the year 348. Christianity was then the keynote of its life, and martyrs died for the faith. Now it is given up to the worship of the Virgin almost more than any town in Spain. In the eighth century it fell under the dominion of the Moors, who kept it until the twelfth century. Then came Alonso the Warrior, who captured it after a desperate siege of five years, when the people had most of them perished from hunger: one of the most determined resistances in the history of the world.

It pa.s.sed through many vicissitudes as the centuries rolled on. Then in 1808 came the French, who without taking the town managed to leave it almost in ruins. Then came the attack under Napoleon's four generals, and Zaragoza resisted them single-handed for sixty-two days of terrible struggle, combined with plague and famine. All Spain looked on and did nothing to relieve it. It fell in 1809. Since that time it has had a peaceful return to prosperity.

Many of the ancient outlines and splendours of the city had disappeared in the "heap of ruins" left by the French. A new element arose, and as we walked towards our rambling old inn, with its thousand-and-one pa.s.sages, we thought them painfully evident. At the inn we took up our guide, who escorted us through many streets and turnings to the Plaza del Portillo, where stood the ancient west gate of the city.

It was on this very spot that occurred the romantic episode of Augustina the Fair Maid of Zaragoza; a Spanish Joan of Arc on a small scale.

In the terrible siege to which the city was to succ.u.mb, Augustina was fighting on the walls side by side with her devoted lover. She watched him fall, death-stricken, then took the match from his loosening hand and worked the gun herself. Determined to avenge her lover, it is said that she fought long and desperately and with more fatal execution than any two artillerymen. But we all know the story by heart; and how, though courting death, she escaped all dangers.

Not to see this romantic spot were we here, but the Aljaferia, just beyond the gate, in some measure by far the most interesting secular building in Zaragoza. This was the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, and still possesses some exquisite Moorish traces and outlines, though chiefly by way of restoration. It was built by a Sheikh of Zaragoza as a royal fortress, with almost impregnable walls. Ferdinand the Catholic gave it over to the Inquisition party to add to the power of this wretched tribunal, partly because in these strong walls the hated judges found a safe refuge after the murder of the popular and ill-fated Arbues.

In the French war it was much injured by Suchet, who turned it into a barrack, then degraded this ancient palace of the Moorish kings and the kings of Aragon to the rank of a prison. Alphonso XII. restored the palace, and had it redecorated as far as possible to imitate its ancient splendour. The staircase is very fine, and the ceilings of some of the rooms are magnificent. One of the rooms is called the Salon of Santa Isabel, because here that future queen of Hungary, so famous for her goodness, was born in 1271. It is richly decorated in blue and gold.

There is a small octagonal mosque of great beauty, which has been left just as it was in the days of the Moors; and some of the horseshoe doorways, in outline at least, have not changed. The visit was full of interest, and in spite of all alteration, carried us back to the days when that wonderful people reigned in Zaragoza. In the upper part was a magnificent armoury, kept in good order by the soldiers--for this fine old building has again been turned into a barrack, and devoted to military use.

The day pa.s.sed on to night, and there came an hour when we found ourselves sitting for a time in the cafe that is said to be the largest in Spain, studying human nature, listening to the music--for once an interesting and civilised performance. The room was gorgeously fitted up with gilding and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. The atmosphere was fast growing to that state of blue haze which the Spaniards delight in, many of whom are said to carry on their smoke in their sleep by some process of conjuring only to be acquired after long practice.

We happened to be looking away from the orchestra, in deep study of a curious group to our right--a group which seemed to comprise four generations. One was one of the oddest little old women we had ever seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, and small restless eyes sharp as an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like a bird's claws. This was the little great-grandmother. She had by no means pa.s.sed into her dotage, the nonent.i.ty of old age, and was possibly not more than seventy or seventy-five, though she looked a hundred. Then came her son and daughter-in-law--unmistakably her son from the likeness to her on a larger and somewhat pleasanter scale. Then a still younger generation: a young man and woman, evidently husband and wife; she as evidently the man's daughter. These were better dressed and looked as though they had climbed a few rungs up the social ladder; they were prosperous in their small way; and the young man was distinctly of a better grade than his father-in-law. On his knee sat a lovely boy some five years old, fast asleep, his head pillowed against the father's shoulder. Here was the fourth generation.

But what most attracted us was the singular beauty of the young man's wife, with her delicate flushed cheeks, her white teeth, clear hazel eyes, and abundant hair perfectly arranged. He seemed to follow her looks and hang upon her words and worship the ground she trod upon, and we did not wonder.

We were absorbed in this domestic picture, when suddenly we were arrested by the spell of a lovely voice, and well-remembered words fell upon our ear. It was that touching song of Lamartine's, _Le Lac_, so pathetic in words and music. We turned and felt thrilled and startled as we recognised the face and form that had accosted us in El Pilar and poured out her sad story.

But the face was changed. In place of the hungry pallor there was now a crimson flush; the eyes sparkled with light. Was it all due to inward fever, to the wine-cup, or to artificial aid? Not the latter, we thought. There was a beauty upon the face nothing artificial ever yet possessed. She was quietly dressed in black. It might have been the very robe she had worn in the morning, differently arranged.

We must have moved or slightly started, for at that moment she evidently recognised us. For an instant her face changed colour, her voice trembled; then she recovered herself, and apparently did not again notice us.

The very first words of the introduction had caught our ear with all the charm and familiarity of an old friend. All its dramatic power was well rendered by the singer.

"Ainsi toujours pousses vers de nouveaux rivages, Dans la nuit eternelle emportes sans retour, Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'ocean des ages Jeter l'ancre un seul jour?"

So it went on, to the end of the declamation. Then, after a slight pause, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air:

"Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence, On n'entendait au loin sur l'onde et sous les cieux, Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence Tes flots harmonieux!

"O Lac! Rochers muets, grottes, foret obscure, Vous que le temps epargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir, Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, Au moins le souvenir!

"Que le vent qui gemit, le roseau qui soupire, Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume, Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire, Tout dise: ils ont aime!"

Not a word was lost. Every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear as a bell. We had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater justice done to its pathos. Every shade of sadness in its cadences was perfectly given. It was only too evident that trouble had helped the exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. To us, who were to some extent behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen without emotion. We could read between the lines and knew the source of her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all.

When the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and went out into the night air. The streets seemed to have grown small and contracted. Something must be done for that sad life that would otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we were powerless to move in the matter. Suddenly, as though by an inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human kindness. If there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him.

Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the river. The night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, showing up in magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. The old bridge spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven arches.

It was a perfect night, a witching scene. Everywhere intense quiet reigned, absolute stillness and repose. The world might have been a sleeping paradise, knowing nothing of human suffering. But we had learned that day by sad experience that the time for sorrow and sighing to flee away lay still in the far-off future.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE CANON'S HOSPITALITY.

El Pilar by day--In the old cathedral--The canon reproachful--Equal to the occasion--No pressure needed--_Un diner maigre_--Dream of forty years--True to time--Juanita--Fruits of long service--Exploring Juanita's domains--House of magic--"Surely not a fast-day"--Artistic dreams--Who can legislate after death?--Canon's abstinence--Juanita withdraws--Our opportunity--Canon earnest and sympathetic--Eugenie de Colmar--Canon's surprise--An old friend--Truth stranger than fiction--"You will forget the old priest"--Ingrat.i.tude not one of our sins--A _rivederci_--Canon's letter--End of Eugenie's story--En route for Tarragona--Landlord turns up at Lerida--Missing keys--Skeletons floated out to Panama--Domestic drama--Dragon again to the front--Tarragona--Matchless coast scene--Civilised inn--Military element--Haunted house--Mystery unsolved--Distinct elements--Roman and other remains--Dream of the past--Green pastures and sunny vineyards.

It was the next day. We had again been standing on the farther bank of the river watching the flowing waters. They were dark and deep, a mighty stream that swept through the seven arches of the wonderful bridge reflecting its outlines. We had contemplated for the twentieth time the marvellous effect of the domes and towers of El Pilar rising like an eastern vision against the clear sky, had asked ourselves over and over again where we should find a fairer and a more striking view, and found the question difficult to answer. We had strolled over that same bridge back into the town, where the charm of outline and ancient atmosphere so strangely disappeared; had pa.s.sed the fine old Exchange, crossed the square with its plashing fountain and ever-changing group of chattering women filling their artistic pitchers.

Finally we had found ourselves within the cathedral, also, for the twentieth time, lost in this architectural splendour; this wonder of a bygone age, where all the fret of every-day life had no room for existence.

As we looked, we noticed a portly figure hurriedly crossing the aisles in our direction. At the first moment he did not see us. An expression of intense amiability and benevolence "was upon the large round face, that would otherwise have been so ugly, and by its aid was made so beautiful. He raised his eyes and came down upon us as an eagle to its prey.