"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"

The Oracle was silent. With a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage.

"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."

As he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight, and evidently full of purpose. We took it without doubting and soon found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral with the Bishop's palace at right angles.

On this occasion no majestic outlines rewarded us. Only for its interior is the cathedral famous. All doors were locked and barred. We knocked for admission. These wonderful buildings should be open at night as well as by day, and some of their finest effects are lost by this tyrannical custom. But we knocked in vain; ghostly echoes answered us. Ghosts pa.s.s through doors; we never heard that the most accommodating ghost ever opened them to mortals. It was the great south doorway at which we appealed--the Apostles' Doorway--and in the darkness we could just trace its fine deeply-recessed arch. Above the cathedral rose its one solitary pagan tower, shadowy and unreal against the night sky.

A broad, magnificent, apparently endless flight of steps such as few cathedrals possess faced the west front. To-night we could see nothing beyond of the town and river, the great stretch of country and far-off Pyrenees we knew must be there. All this must wait for the morning. Nor should we have to wait long, for night and the moments were flying. The glare had died out of the sky; shows and booths had put out their lights; the crowd had gone home. Gerona might now truly be likened to a dead city.

No sound disturbed the stillness but the cry of the watchmen in different parts of the town. One proclaimed the time and weather and another took up the tale; sometimes a discordant duet rose upon the air. We heard it all distinctly from our citadel above the world.

[Ill.u.s.tration: APOSTLES' DOORWAY, CATHEDRAL: GERONA.]

As we looked, one of them pa.s.sed in slow contemplation at the foot of the long flight of steps--steps nearly as broad as the cathedral itself.

His staff struck the ground, his light flashed shadows upon the houses.

The effect was weird. Heavy footsteps echoed right and left through the narrow streets, in fitting accompaniment to his monotonous chant. We had long grown familiar with these old watchmen, who come laden with an atmosphere of the past. They are in harmony with these towns of ancient outlines, suggesting days when perhaps the faintest glimmer of an oil lamp only made darkness more hideous; days when their office was no sinecure as now, but one of danger and responsibility.

The cathedral clock struck eleven, and when the last faint vibration had died upon the air we turned to go. It seemed a great many hours since we had risen in the darkness of the Narbonne misty morning, H. C. had been reawakened with a sort of volcanic eruption, and madame, wishing us bon voyage over our tea and hot rolls, had disappeared like a flash into the mist to put the final touches to her _diner de noce_.

"Now for Hare and Hounds, H. C. Lead the way."

"By the beard of Mahomet! I forgot all about it and have put none down."

"So the scent has failed?"

Remorse made him silent for a moment. Then he tried to turn the tables.

"After all, it was your fault. Your saying what you did about the silken thread and Fair Rosamund, set me thinking what a romantic adventure it would be if it could only come true. Naturally everything else went out of my mind."

"We must make the best of it, H. C., and get back to the hotel as we can. Suppose we vary the route. These steps look inviting; we will take them. All roads lead to Rome."

We went down the interminable flight, turned and looked back. A vision of a church in the clouds and a pagan tower that went out of sight. We had returned to earth, and not far off the old watchman was still awaking shadows and echoes in the narrow street. We could not do better than follow, and presently found ourselves in our quaint little octagonal corner. All was well.

The long thoroughfare, so crowded lately, was now forsaken. Stalls were shut down, lights were out. It was like a deserted banqueting-hall. The chestnut sellers had left their pans and baskets, but left them empty.

From the bed of the river the dancing demons had departed, and the smoke of their incense still ascended from dying embers. Next came the old arcades, darker, lonelier, more mysterious than ever. These we knew faced our street, and turning our backs upon them we found ourselves in a few moments at the hotel.

Only a couple of old watchmen broke the solitude, meeting at their boundaries. They stood on the pavement in close converse and we wondered if they were hatching mischief; then they threw their light upon us and no doubt returned the compliment. We disappeared within the great doorway and left them to their reflections.

Up the broad staircase, the white marble glistening in the rays of the one electric lamp that still lighted up the courtyard. We thought of the sumptuous crowd that had pa.s.sed up and down in the centuries gone by; fair dames in rustling silks and gay cavaliers with clanking swords; all the grandeur and gorgeousness of that once ducal palace. The staircase seemed haunted with ghosts and shadows, the murmur of voices, echo of laughter, weeping of tears.

And now, dim and vapoury, a brilliant pair appeared in tender proximity to each other. His arm encircled her waist, her fair white hand rested with fond appropriation upon his doublet. The love-look in her eyes was only equalled by the fervour and constancy of his. Yet sadness predominated, for it was a farewell interview. She was the last daughter of the ducal house, last of her race. They were betrothed and the course of true love had run smooth. But now he was bidden fight for his country and would depart at daybreak.

He never lived to return, but died on the battlefield. Within his gloved hand was found a golden tress tightly clasped, and next his heart a small miniature of his beautiful betrothed. Both were buried with him.

She soon faded and declined, and found him again in a Land where wars and partings are unknown. House and name became extinct. As we thought of this, suddenly the staircase seemed full of sighs, lights grew dim.

We pa.s.sed on and found the hotel empty and deserted. Every one had gone to bed and left the long gloomy corridors to silence and the ghosts. We lighted candles and H. C. led the way through the labyrinth to our rooms. Windows were open and the two old watchmen below were just where we had left them, apparently still gazing at the doorway through which we had disappeared.

_"El sereno!"_ cried he. "Call your hours and guard the city. Enemies lurk in secret corners."

They looked up and wished us good night. We were not marauders after all. So they separated with easy conscience, and from opposite ends of the street we heard them announce the time and weather.

It was hardly necessary, for another watchman rang out with iron tongue.

Midnight slowly tolled over the town from all the churches. Impossible to believe an hour had pa.s.sed since we stood at the top of that vast flight of steps overlooking the darkness. How had we sauntered back?

Where had the moments flown? One grows absorbed in these night visions, dark shadows and outlines, and time pa.s.ses unconsciously. We counted the strokes, listened to the vibrations, and then H. C. went off to his own regions. The watchmen were all very well in their way, but for his part an open window and a love serenade--such as we had been favoured with in Toledo--had greater charms. To-night pa.s.sionate appeals and the melody of the lute were sought in vain. Every window was closed and dark. We also said good-night to the sleeping world.

The next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. Heavy rain had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. Just now, however, they had proclaimed a truce.

We went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey tones of the town. Nevertheless Spain essentially needs sunshine to bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. Under dark clouds it falls for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost.

"The rainy season has begun," said H. C. "We are in for a spell of wet weather. Generally it comes in September. This year it has obligingly put it off until November. My usual ill-luck."

"I fear it is so," said Jose our host's son, who, as we have said, volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden wonders--delighted to air his French and give us Spanish lessons. "We have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great meteorologist. He has just written to the papers to say we are to have a month's deluge."

A cheerful beginning. As it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. All the same we would not lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. So we put on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their umbrellas.

It would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must record one experience before concluding. Let us close our eyes, take flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with our backs to the cathedral.

We see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. The town lies chiefly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. To our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and irregular outlines. Near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal, excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can only imagine its once perfect beauty.

Low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque country. We can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. If Pan still pipes it is to the pixies.

In the distance the Pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn undulations. Nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. Some are snow-capped and stand out pure and white against the grey skies. A magic picture and we long to see it under sunshine. No wonder if Pan is silent.

We turn to the cathedral. No need to knock this morning. The great west doors are unlocked and we enter.

The first thing to strike us is an intense obscurity; a dim religious light deeper than we remember to have seen in any other sacred building.

But to-day the grey skies have something to answer for in this matter.

As the sight grows accustomed to the gloom, the next thing we notice is the vastness and splendour of the nave in which we stand: a single span seventy-three feet broad. No other church in Christendom can boast of such a nave. Light comes in from windows high up, filled in with rich stained gla.s.s. The tone of the walls and pillars is perfect, never having been touched with brush or knife; a rich subdued claret delighting the senses. Those great men of the Middle Ages made no mistakes. Nothing was admitted to disturb their love of harmony and proportion. They built wonders for the glory of their country and for all time: knew and recognised one thing only--the charm of perfection.

Where they failed, their efforts were crippled; they were told to make bricks without straw.

Without waiting at this moment to examine the church more closely, we pa.s.s through a great doorway on the left and find ourselves in the cloisters.

Here too is a marvellous vision. Few cloisters in the world compare with them. The four sides are unequal, but this almost heightens their attraction. They have been little interfered with and are almost in their original state. The simple round arches rest on coupled pillars of marble, slender and graceful. The capitals are extremely rich, elaborate and delicate in their carving. Here Romanesque art seems to have been introduced into Spain through France. The cathedrals of Catalonia are of exceeding beauty and appear to have laid the foundation of mediaeval Spanish art. This also, though they would deny it, is due to French influence--happily at that time at its best and purest.

In this wonderful cloister we lost ourselves in dreams of the Middle Ages, days which have glorified the earth, and appear almost as necessary to us as light and air. In the centre was an ancient well, without which no cloister seems perfect. Shrubs and trees embowered it, and the fresh green stood out in contrast with creamy walls and Romanesque arches.

At the end of the north pa.s.sage we pa.s.sed through an open porch to a view extensive and magnificent. A steep rugged descent led to the town.

Below us was the ancient Benedictine church of San Pedro, with its Norman doorway and cloisters scarcely less wonderful than those we had just visited. Near it was a smaller, equally ancient church, now desecrated and turned into a carpenter's shop. We will pay it a visit by-and-by and make acquaintance with its st.u.r.dy owner, who pa.s.ses his days and does his work under the very shadow of sanct.i.ty. Beyond all, on the brow of the hill outside the walls, we trace the ruins of the great castle and citadel that so n.o.bly stood the siege of Gerona, until the twin spectres famine and disease stalked in hand in hand and conquered the brave defenders.

We gazed long upon all these historical landmarks, pointed out and explained by our guide-companion. Then turning back through the cloisters again found ourselves lost in visions of the past as we fell once more under the magic influence of the vast s.p.a.ce and dim religious light of Gerona's splendid cathedral.

CHAPTER V.