[Ill.u.s.tration: CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]

"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I paced these silent corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. And they witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my life--but my triumph also. For here I bade my earthly farewell to Rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes and claims upon her and gave her into Heaven's keeping. Here I placed her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned to the dust from which it was taken."

We pa.s.sed through the little north doorway to the outer world. Far away the snow-capped Pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. In the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the love-songs of the reeds and rushes. Near us was the lovely octagon tower, shorn of its spire. Without the ancient walls we traced the remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of San Pedro and its desecrated companion.

"Let us go down to them," said Anselmo: "examine the wonderful little cloisters and make the acquaintance of Miguel the carpenter. He seems to care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane, once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the confessional."

It was a rough descent, but a singularly interesting scene. We found ourselves in narrow streets with ancient houses whose windows were guarded by splendid ironwork. Last night the watchmen had paced and cried the hour, awakening the echoes, summoning the silent shadows with their lanterns. To-day there was no sense of mystery about streets and houses; daylight loves to disillusion. We had to content ourselves with quaint gables and old-world outlines. Behind us was one of the ancient gateways strong and ma.s.sive, leading directly into the precincts of the cathedral. Framed through its archway we saw a portion of the vast flight of steps crowned by the uninteresting west front. It was one of the very best, most old-world bits of Gerona, and within a small circle were antiquities and outlines that would have furnished an artist with work for half his days.

Upon all this we turned our backs as we went towards San Pedro. Here everything is in opposition to the cathedral; the exterior of this Benedictine church is its glory. Rounding a corner we are in full view of the beautiful west Norman doorway with its delicately wrought carving and fern-leaf capitals. Above the doorway is a very effective cornice and above that an admirable rose window: altogether a rare example of the Italian Romanesque. The whole church is very striking, with its fine octagonal tower and Norman apses built into the old town walls. Just beyond the tower a gateway leads to the citadel and open country beyond.

A church existed here as early as the tenth century--possibly earlier; the present church dates from the beginning of the twelfth, when it was given to the Benedictine Convent of Santa Maria by the Bishop of Carca.s.sonne.

We pa.s.sed through the lovely old doorway to the uninteresting interior: a nave and isles with rude arches and piers plain and square. There was something cold and pagan about the general effect, exaggerated no doubt by contrast with the cathedral we had just left. Anselmo was not insensible to the influence.

"If I were Vicar of San Pedro, half the delight of my days would vanish," he said. "Instead of living in a refined, almost celestial atmosphere, existence would be a daily protest against paganism. Let us pa.s.s to the cloisters."

Here indeed the scene changed. Smaller than those of the cathedral, they were almost as beautiful and effective though more ruined and more restored.

"Not time but wanton mischief has been at work here," said Anselmo. "The work of destruction was due to the French in the Peninsular War. Which of Spain's treasures did they leave untouched?"

Nevertheless a great part of their beauty remained. The pa.s.sages were full of collected fragments; old tombs, broken pillars, carved capitals and ancient crosses: a museum of antiquities: and the Norman arches resting upon their marble shafts were a wonderful setting to the whole.

Above them, all round the cloisters, a series of small blind Norman arcades rested upon delicately carved corbels--charming and unusual detail.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]

Within a few yards of San Pedro was a still more ancient and interesting church with a most picturesque interior; yet a church no longer, for it has been turned into workshops. A low octagonal tower crowns a red-tiled roof with slightly overhanging eaves. Beneath the eaves repose small blind arcades, and here and there in the lower hall other arcades are gradually crumbling away. The wonderful roof is rounded and broken into sections to suit the plan of the building. Ancient eyelets admit faint rays of light, and a fine rounded arch points to what was once the princ.i.p.al doorway.

The interior is domed, vaulted and ma.s.sive, black with age. Small, it seems to carry one back to the days when Christians were few and worshipped in secret. Now fitted as a carpenter's shop, it is full of the sound of hammer and plane. In one corner, men are melting glue and heating irons at a huge fireplace. The floor is uneven and below the level of the road. Light enters with difficulty. An obscure, suggestive scene worthy of Rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination of mysterious gloom and human occupation.

The master, a stalwart Spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. He was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his reverence and admiration, even affection for Father Anselmo were evident.

"You honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "Not every day will you come upon such a scene. Yet there is a certain fitness in it after all. Was not Joseph a carpenter? and did not our Saviour work in the carpenter's shop? So that, as it seems to me, it has become n.o.ble above all other callings. And so, if this church must be turned to secular use, we have chosen for the best. To me there is no sense of desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there is room and to spare in both."

"I fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said Anselmo, with the mildest of rebukes. "Yet, Miguel, how often have I said there is good in you--an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life--if only you would not allow it to run to seed."

"Father," returned Miguel good-humouredly--it was curious to hear an older man thus address a younger--"all in good time. I conceive that I am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking after my children. But somehow I can't go to confession--what have I to confess, in the name of wonder?--and I never feel a bit the better for Ma.s.s, high or low. So I just make a religion of daily life, and by-and-by, when I am old, I will try to find benefit in your set forms and ceremonies."

Anselmo shook his head. We knew how closely he sympathised with at least one part of Miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. He only looked a vain remonstrance, which Miguel received with the good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself.

"Last Sunday," said Anselmo, placing his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most hopeless, most full of warning in the whole Bible: _'And the door was shut.'_ There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutsh.e.l.l. Bear it in mind and ponder over it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure of the morrow? Forgive me," turning to us; "I did not come here for this, but Miguel and I are old friends and understand each other. As continual dropping will wear away a stone, so I seldom neglect to put in a word when we meet, though to-day I might for your sake have refrained.

It will tell in the end," nodding to Miguel, "for he has a conscience and I will not let it rest. And what a building in which to preach a sermon!" looking upwards and around. "These blackened vaults, those ma.s.sive time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor--everything suggests a pagan rather than Christian past. If anything could heighten the effect it is those weird workers at the fire with faces lighted up by tongues of flame. All seems a remnant of barbarism. But it is a wonderful spot, and I come again and again and every time it reads a fresh lesson to the soul. The whole place seems full of ghostly shadows.

And it is perfect, as you see; transepts, a chancel and apses; nothing wanting. And so, Miguel, you who so to say dwell in the odour of sanct.i.ty, on ground once consecrated, within walls once devoted to the service of Heaven, should be influenced by your surroundings and become a shining light."

"Then I fear it will never be anything but a reflected light," laughed Miguel, "and that proceeding from your revered and beloved person. I shall be content if only the shadow of Elijah's mantle touches me in falling."

We left the wonderful little building so crowded with interest past and present. Miguel professed to feel honoured by our visit, and placing himself in att.i.tude outside his door intimated that he should like to be taken with our instantaneous camera. This was done and the result promised in due time. We left him standing there--a tall, strong, magnificent specimen of his race, with hair turning grey and rugged features full of a certain power.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA.]

"That man has in him the making of a hero," said Anselmo, as we pa.s.sed through the gateway in the old wall. "In a different station of life he would have been a master of the world. But I always feel that the lives and destinies of such men, missed here, will be carried on to perfection in another state of existence. Great powers were never meant to be lost.

Here he is the acorn, there he will become the full-grown tree bearing fruit."

We were climbing towards the ruined citadel and at last found ourselves within the once formidable fortress. Much remained to show the strength of what had been, but its immense area was now given up to silence and weeds.

"It is full of a sad atmosphere and melancholy recollections," said Anselmo. "One goes back in spirit to the terrible days of the past.

First that War of Succession, when Gerona with two thousand men manfully but hopelessly resisted Philip V. with an army five times as great.

Again in 1808, with three hundred men, chiefly English, she repulsed Duhesme with his six thousand warriors. In 1809 the French besieged her with thirty-five thousand men. Alvarez, who was then Governor--you will have observed his house in the cathedral square--was terribly handicapped. He had little food and scarcely any ammunition, but was one of the bravest and wisest men of Spain. The siege was long and fierce, the suffering great. We were much helped by the English, but your gallant Colonel Marshall was killed in the breaches. It is said that Alvarez wept at his death, declaring he had lost his right hand. In such straits was the town that even the women enrolled themselves into a company dedicated to Santa Barbara. The enemy failed to take the city; never was resistance more manful and determined. Many of the besieging generals gave up in angry impatience and went off.

"But at last two new enemies arose--famine and disease--inseparable spectres. Before these Gerona could not stand. Everything depended on Alvarez, and he fell a prey to fever. A successor was appointed whose first and last act was to capitulate. The siege had lasted nearly eight months, and the French lost fifteen thousand men. So," looking around, "we are on cla.s.sic ground, sacred to courage, consecrated by human suffering, watered with streams of human blood. Gerona has never recovered. She has steadily declined and still declines.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.]

Nevertheless, she is and ever will be Gerona the brave and beautiful."

Anselmo had not exaggerated. Gerona was indeed a revelation. It is not a Segovia, for there is only one Segovia in the world; but, little known or visited, it is yet one of Spain's most picturesque and interesting towns. Nature and art have combined to make it so--the art of the Middle Ages, not of to-day. A modern element exists, but the new and the old, the hideous and the beautiful are so well divided by the river, that you may wander through the ancient streets undisturbed by the nineteenth century and fancy yourself in dreamland.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO.]

We had mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on the embankment. Fragments of the old citadel lay about in all directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading to underground vaults. Over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of vanished hands and departed glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast army; the ground trembled with the tramp of hors.e.m.e.n, march of troops.

In imagination we saw the dead and dying, the bold resistance to human foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. The air was full of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. Then the vision pa.s.sed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before us. The gra.s.s on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme scented the air with its pungent fragrance. A little below, stretching far round, were the old town walls, grey and ma.s.sive.

The ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of towers, walls and ancient houses. San Pedro was conspicuous, and just beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. In its rich sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping trees and many fruits of the earth. To-day, it was a scene of peace and plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again.

Above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in perpetual benediction. Beside us sat Father Anselmo, his pale refined face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness.

Suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed to die away amidst the distant Pyrenees.

"It is my summons," said the priest. "I would fain linger with you, but duty calls me elsewhere. I cannot say farewell. Let us again meet to-morrow."

We promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pa.s.s over his expressive face. Following his intent gaze, our eyes rested upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of a _Religieuse_, flitting silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. Miguel, who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint.

"Sister Anastasia," said Anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the fact. "She is bound on some errand of mercy. May Heaven have her in its holy keeping!"

CHAPTER VII.

A DAY OF ENCOUNTERS.

"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"--The unexpected happens--under the probe--Wise reservation--Born to command--Contrasts--Nothing new under the sun--The senora prepares for the fair--Grievance not very deep seated--Bewitching appearance--Senora dramatic--Ernesto--Marriage a lottery--Every cloud its silver lining--Gerona _en fete_--Delormais' mission--Deceptive appearances--Evils of conscription--Ernesto's ambition--Les beaux jours de la vie--Rosalie--A fair picture--Strange similarity--Heavenwards--Anastasia or Rosalie--Her dreams and visions--Modern Paul and Virginia--Eternal possession--A Gerona saint--The better part--More heresy--Fenelon--One creed, one worship--Not peace but a sword--Not dead to the world--Angel of mercy--H. C. mistaken--Earthly idyll.

That same afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. The fair was in full swing, Gerona festive. It was a general holiday and work was suspended. The shops were open, but no one attempted to make purchases. Even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. And she took her pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness.

Luncheon had long been over. Black coffee and headache were of the past.

The Silent Enigma had gone their way. Mutely they had risen, taken their hats, and marched out in a procession of three. Delormais had duly administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had gone into the town to prosecute his mission. Whether an inspection of the numerous convents, a private emba.s.sy from the Pope, or some other weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he did not say.

Before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting Gerona were ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office.