Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

.

"Good-bye, Hugo. Keep to your ideals and aspirations."

"No fear, señor. I mean to do so."

And away he went, none the less happy for sundry coins that rattled musically in his pocket and would probably be spent in something more lasting than fruit and flowers; whilst we went back to our beloved precincts and studied the outlines of the Middle Ages.

One sunny afternoon we hired a conveyance and started for the Roman Aqueduct. It was the only conveyance of the kind to be found in Tarragona. The owner, who drove us himself, called it a victoria, and seemed proud of it. Large and heavy, it might have dated from the days of the Cæsars. Its proper place undoubtedly was the Museum of Roman Antiquities to which we had just paid a visit; and so perhaps there was something à propos in the idea of its conveying us to a Roman aqueduct. Our driver was dressed in a smock frock, and in the high seat in front of us looked perched up like a lighthouse upon a rock—or a modern Cæsar in a triumphal progress.

We rattled through the streets, and soon found ourselves on the broad white road that in time, if we persevered, would take us to Lerida the chivalrous and true. Not the least intention had we of paying that interesting old town a second visit, but the very fact of knowing that our faces were set that way, brought our late experiences vividly before us.

We wondered how it fared with our much-tried landlord; whether the waiter was yet out of hospital, and he and the Dragon had made up their differences or agreed to differ. Though the well had been dragged, it was possible that the skeletons were still there; perhaps had risen to the surface to refute the old saying that dead men tell no tales. We thought of our polite captain, and almost wished we might come across him in Tarragona. He would be sure to know our silent but interesting old canon of the violet robe, and would open many doors to us. Above all we wondered how Alphonse fared. By this time his wife would be resting in her grave; and he, poor lonely wayfarer, would haunt the sad precincts of the cemetery, and dream of his early days and of walking through the world with the wife of his youth. No doubt he was right and would soon follow her to the Land o' the Leal, hailing the hour of his release.

But all this had nothing to do with our present journey. On each side of the road we found a rich undulating country. We were in the neighbourhood of vineyards, and the wine, when pure, is some of the best that Spain produces. Here and there stood a picturesque farm-house, with whitewashed walls and green venetians, and heaps of yellow pumpkins, cantaloupe melons and strings of red peppers dangling from the balconies: the usual thing in Spain and Italy and the countries of the South. On a hillside, an occasional village slept in the sunshine; a quiet little place, apparently without inhabitants or any reason for existence.