"Not a vestige, senor; not a single bone. I told you the well communicated with the river, and the river with the sea. They must have floated out, and probably are now reposing in the Panama Ca.n.a.l."

"But why the Panama Ca.n.a.l?"

"Everything bad must drift there, senor. I lost a large sum in the wretched affair."

"And have you seen no ghost since we left?"

"No ghost, senor, and no mysterious sounds. All the same we have had a domestic drama."

"The Dragon?"

"Exactly, senor. Your penetration is wonderful. As she was leaning over her wash-tub, the waiter came behind and ducked her head in the soapsuds. Her mouth--you know her mouth--was wide open, and she swallowed a great gulp of soapy water; upon which, presto! quick as lightning, she up with her washing-pin and hit him on the head. Such a crash! Down went the waiter, and the Dragon was stooping over him with wet locks like a dripping mermaid, gloating and mouthing upon the ruin."

"And the waiter?"

"In the hospital, senor, with a broken head. That is why I am here. I have to come to the station myself, and be my own porter, and see my guests off. Servants are the bane of one's life. Like the flies, they were invented for our torment. But, senor, these troubles are nothing compared with the relief of finding that the skeletons had cleared out to sea."

Our train came up and we went our way, leaving Lerida behind us with its fine outlines, and the landlord to the difficult task of managing his womenkind.

So far we had travelled on the line before, but now branched off towards Tarragona. We did not again see Manresa, but even a comparative approach to its neighbourhood brought all the splendid and imposing outlines, the blood-red river, vividly before us. Once more we saw Mons Serratus with its jagged, fantastic peaks: lived through our haunted night in the Hospederia; again Salvador the monk and his wonderful music took possession of our spirit and Serratus itself appeared enveloped in harmony and romance. We were glad not to pa.s.s through the station, where possibly Sebastien would have been on the watch for pa.s.sengers; and we should have left a heart-broken expression behind us at the very thought of our not staying a couple of days to see Manresa under sunshine.

The day was wearing on to evening as we approached Tarragona with its matchless coast scene. The blue waters of the Mediterranean stretched far and wide, and the harbour reposed upon them like a sleeping crescent. As the sun dipped in the west, the waters flashed out its declining rays, reflected the gorgeous colouring of the sky. The train landed us in the lower town. We had to reach the upper town, and the rickety old omnibus rolled and struggled up the steep streets, finally depositing us at the Fonda de Paris.

We found the inn quite civilised. The landlord was half Italian and spoke several languages. On the first night of our arrival the cook must have been in a very amiable mood, for he sent up an excellent dinner.

But to H. C.'s sorrow and surprise the after dinners were a lamentable falling-off. The cook had been crossed in love, received notice to quit, or his art failed him: everything was below par. On the evening of our arrival, the evil had not fallen.

The hotel, like many of the Spanish inns was large and rambling. Our landlord conducted us to excellent rooms facing the road, and from the balcony the scene was enchanting. Before us was an old Roman tower. To our right, far down, 700 feet below our present level, we caught sight of the sleeping Mediterranean.

It was not quite so pleasant to find ourselves surrounded by the military element; barracks to right and left of us; sentries in slippers patrolling up and down; raw recruits, looking as little like soldiers as anything to be conceived; constant s.n.a.t.c.hes of bugle-calling, which seemed to end at midnight and begin again at four in the morning. So far, all was unrest. But we soon found that the charms of Tarragona soared far above all small and secondary considerations.

Down the long pa.s.sage behind our rooms we came to the garden of the hotel. It was after dinner and pale twilight reigned. In the centre of the garden a splendid spreading palm outlined itself against the evening sky, in which shone a large, liquid, solitary star. The garden was surrounded by a white wall, and the scene was quite eastern. Far down was the wonderful coast-line and crescent harbour. Of late we had had only rivers, and this broad expanse of sea brought new life to the spirit.

Returning indoors, we found the inn haunted, but not by spirits of the dead.

The ghost was unmistakably flesh and blood. The first time we caught sight of him--it was a masculine ghost, therefore doubly uninteresting--he was cautiously putting his head into our rooms and taking a look round. The said rooms were raised above the rest on that floor by steps that led to our own quarters only. Thus the ghost was clearly trespa.s.sing. He neither looked confused nor apologised as he took his slow departure. All his time seemed spent in prowling about the pa.s.sages in a spirit of curiosity or unrest. Often we found him on our premises on suddenly coming in, and once or twice, when quietly writing, on looking up were startled by an evil-looking countenance intruding itself at the open door, and as quickly withdrawing on finding the room occupied.

We never discovered the mystery. Whether the ghost was a little out of its mind, whether it was its peculiar way of taking exercise, or whether it suffered from kleptomania and had a pa.s.sion for collecting sticks and umbrellas, nothing of this was ever learned. We only knew that the ghost looked like a broken-down dissenting parson, that it dressed in sable garments, and went about with a pale face and large black eyes that seemed to glow with hidden fire suggestive of madness, and long, straight, black hair plastered down each side of its face; a curiously unpleasant object to encounter at every trick and turn of the gloomy corridors.

Tarragona possesses two distinct elements, both in an eminent degree.

The town, especially the lower town, is mean and common-place. Ascending beyond a certain point, you come upon everything refined and beautiful.

It stands on a hill which gradually rises to some seven or eight hundred feet above the sea-level. At the highest point of all is its mediaeval cathedral, surpa.s.sing most of the cathedrals of Spain or elsewhere--one of those wonders of architecture that visit us in our dreams, but are seldom actually found. It does not, however, stand out far and wide in magnificent outlines, like Manresa or Lerida. Only a close inspection reveals its charms.

The upper town is surrounded by walls ancient and imposing. Within their boundaries are many Roman and Christian remains, such as few places still possess, making of Tarragona a dream of the past crowded with interest. Outside the walls the views are splendid and extensive.

Looking towards the ever-changing sea, the coast-line is magnificent.

Point after point juts out; hill after hill rises towards the East. Far down at one's feet lies the little harbour, encircling all the craft that seek its shelter: steamers from Barcelona with their daily freights, steamers from Norway and Sweden laden with scented pinewood, a whole fleet of picturesque fishing boats. Inland, the country is a succession of rich green pastures and sunny vineyards, whilst on the sloping hills afar off reposes many a town and village.

CHAPTER XXV.

QUASIMODO.

Tarragona by night--Cathedral--Moonlight vision--Dream-fabric--Deserted streets--Ghostly form approaches--Quilp or Quasimodo?--Redeeming qualities--Pale spiritual face--Open sesame--Approaching the apparition--Question and answer--Invitation accepted--Prisoners--The Shadow--Under the cold moonlight--Enter cathedral--Vast interior--Gloom and silence--Fantastic effects--Enigma solved--Strange proceeding--No inspiration--Why Quasimodo turned night into day--Weird moonlight scene--Soft sweet sounds--Schumann's Traumerei--Spellbound--The magician--Witching hour--Cathedral ghosts--An eternity of music--Varying moods--Returning to earth--Quasimodo's rapture--Travelling moonbeams--Night grows old--Sky full of music--Lost to sight--Dreams haunted by Quasimodo--New day.

That first night we went out into the darkness, when details were lost in outlines. We pa.s.sed the barracks where bugling seemed to be in full play. A narrow street to the right led to a short flight of steps, above which rose the west front of the cathedral. As far as we could see, the porches were deep and beautiful. But it was the south and east sides that presented the most marvellous outlines. Even the darkness could not hide their beauty. And presently, when the moon rose and her pale silvery light shone full upon the grey walls and gleamed upon the Gothic windows and ancient tower, it turned to a dream-fabric.

The night was intensely still, not a sound could be heard, not a soul was visible. Our footsteps alone woke the echoes as we walked to and fro before that moonlight vision, and felt unable to leave it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOUTH-WEST EXTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.]

The cathedral clock struck eleven. As the last stroke vibrated upon the air, we saw a shadowy form approaching. It was not yet the ghostly hour, therefore it must be flesh and blood, to be boldly challenged. Was the mysterious being that haunted our corridors prowling these precincts in search of relics? No; as the form approached we saw that it was short and slender; almost diaphanous, almost deformed. The head seemed enormous in comparison with the body; legs and arms were unusually long.

Yet even in the moonlight we noticed that something pale and spiritual about the face redeemed its ugliness. We thought of Quilp, of Quasimodo, all the grotesques we had ever heard of, but he only resembled these at a distance; we soon found that he was far better than they.

This apparition was followed by a lean, lanky youth who seemed to be shod in india-rubber, so silent his footsteps. He towered above Quasimodo, whom he followed as a shadow follows its substance. We happened to be standing near a small gate in the south railings, and up to this gate came Quasimodo, inserted a magic key into the lock and swung it open. What did it mean? Were they, this moonlight night, going into the interior? What a weird experience; what an opportunity not to be lost! The apparition must be won over.

"Are you entering the cathedral?" we asked as they pa.s.sed in and half closed the gate. To our relief a very earthly voice responded in matter-of-fact tones.

"Yes," it replied. "Do you want to enter also?"

It needed no further invitation. We pa.s.sed through, and the gate was closed and locked. As we heard the sharp click and Quasimodo pocketed the key, we felt ourselves prisoners. All the possible and impossible stories we had ever heard of midnight murders and mysterious disappearances flashed through the brain. But the die was cast and we must follow. The enigma which even at the instant puzzled us was the motive for this midnight visit. We could think of none.

We stood for a moment in the s.p.a.ce between the railings and the building. Repairs were going on; it had been turned into a stonemason's yard. The cold moonlight fell upon heavy blocks of marble lying about.

There was an erection that looked for all the world like a gibbet, and we almost expected to see a ghostly skeleton dangling from its cross-beam.

Quasimodo moved on and opened a small south door. He entered and we waited whilst he took a lantern from the hands of the Shadow. It was lighted in a moment, and we found it to be a powerful electric lamp.

Then we too pa.s.sed in, and the door closed upon us. If we were to be murdered, it would not be in utter darkness. The lantern was brilliant, and threw around its ghostly lights and shadows. We are compelled to repeat the adjective, for everything was ghostly and weird.

The vast interior was lost in profoundest silence and gloom. No single light could reach the depths and s.p.a.ces, but round about us the lantern lighted up the outlines of aisles and arches and pillars.

The effect was inexpressibly solemn. There seemed no limit to the s.p.a.ce.

We paced the aisles and thought them endless. Our footsteps awoke ghostly echoes. As far as could be discerned, we were surrounded by the loveliest, most refined outlines. Gothic aisles and arches were dimly visible. And still the Shadow followed Quasimodo, and still his footsteps made no sound.

Quasimodo walked in silence for a time, evidently enjoying our own silent delight and experience. His long arms and legs, his large head, his long-drawn, backward shadow, all suggested gnome-land. He swung the lantern about as though charmed and allured by all the fantastic effects it produced.

At last we felt we must break the silence.

"Why are you here?" we said. "May we ask? It seems so strange to be walking with you in this midnight s.p.a.ce and darkness."

"Can you not guess?" he returned. "What object could I have in coming here at this dark hour? Look."

Then we noticed for the first time that the Shadow carried a music-book.

The enigma was solved. Quasimodo had come to practise.

"But what a strange hour!" we exclaimed. "You turn night into day. Is it that these ghostly shadows inspire you as nothing else can?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: EAST END OF CATHEDRAL, SHOWING NORMAN APSE: TARRAGONA.]