Standing in the courtyard and gazing upon that wide staircase, we see that youthful pair, so favoured by nature, passing to and fro; we see them looking into each other's eyes, hear their love vows. Their arms entwine, their love-locks mingle. A mist blurs the scene, and when it passes all has changed. A sad cortége is descending. A coffin bearing the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. A knight armed cap-à-pied follows, with clanking sword and spur; but his face is pale and his eyes are red with weeping, though they weep not now. They will never weep again. The fountain of his tears is dried.
Again the mist blurs the scene, and when it clears nothing is visible but the solitary knight ascending to his lonely room, love flown, hope dead, his life gone from him.
Presently the palace is closed; no one ascends or descends the staircase; voices are never heard, footsteps never echo. Surely ghosts haunt the sad corridors, look out from the vacant arcades upon the silent courtyard. For the knight has long lain dead upon the battlefield and no one comes to claim the palace and once more throw wide its portals to life, and laughter and sunshine.
We paid it more than one visit during our sojourn in Zaragoza, and each time there passed before us in vivid colours the love-poem of two hundred years ago.
In the bright sunshine, the morning after our arrival we had gone forth to acquaint ourselves with the city. No view was more striking than that beyond the river looking upon the town.
We stood on the farther bank. The stream flowed rapidly at our feet. Before us the wonderful bridge spanned the water with its seven arches: a massive, time-edifying structure. Above this in magic outlines rose the towers, turrets and domes of the new cathedral of El Pilar, as splendid from this point of view as it is really worthless both outwardly and inwardly on a closer inspection. It is certainly one of the most remarkable scenes in all Spain: and from this point Zaragoza possesses few rivals.
The new cathedral of El Pilar: so called because it possesses the pillar on which the Virgin is said to have descended from heaven. It is a very large building, and the domes from a distance are very effective, but the interior is in the worst and most debased style.
As we stood within the vast space that morning, wondering so much wealth had been wasted on this poor fabric, a female, apparently a lady, dressed in sable garments, her face veiled by the graceful mantilla, glided up to us and solicited alms.
At the first moment we thought we had mistaken her meaning, but on looking at her in doubt, she repeated her demand more imploringly.