Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

It was a very dark night, though the stars flashed overhead. We found ourselves on the empty market-place, where trees whispered together. In the morning, when fruit and flowers and a hundred stalls and a crowd of noisy people called for all one's attention, the whispering trees were neglected. Now it was their hour, and they told each other their mighty secrets, and one felt that they were wiser and greater than mankind in its little brief authority. We stood and listened, but they talked in an unknown tongue. Almost as mysterious and full of meaning seemed the outlines of the gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.

From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who, purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred pavement.

Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our Burgos Sereno.

He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the night is fair. El sereno." We gradually approached him, knowing well we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern had peace.

"Señor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, señor? She is not the angel she looks——"

"Are you not rather hard upon the angels, Sereno?"

"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an angel—and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of his bargain."

"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the porter's domestic relations unprofitable.

"Just the same as ever, señor. There was no change anywhere. The everlasting bells chime out the hours and the quarters, and the voices of a half a dozen watchmen take up the tale. The hotel grows rather worse and more unpopular, if that be possible, and for want of a good inn the town is neglected. No one ever goes there a second time. In that respect one is better off in Lerida."

We were standing near the new cathedral in the market-place, when suddenly we saw a quiet figure hurrying towards us. Even afar off we knew it well. It was our Boot-cleaner in Ordinary.