The upturned heads gaze for a moment; on many a countenance appears the emotion actually felt. Imagination is stirred by the dramatic representation. A murmur escapes the kneeling multitude; the music swells to a louder strain, the voices gain a deeper pathos. Then voices and organ gradually die away to a whisper and cease.
Silence reigns. For a moment there is no sound or stir. Then all is over; the Miserere is at an end. Quietly the fair penitents rise from their knees and stream out into the streets, which gain an additional charm as they pass onwards with their perfect forms and graceful walk.
In spite of the somewhat claptrap element, the Miserere is impressive from the beautiful and refined music, the kneeling crowd, the deep obscurity that gives it mystery. It is even worth a day or two's delay in this fair City of Flowers and other delights.
For in our mind we always associate Valencia with the perfume of flowers. Roses for ever bloom, and like silver in the days of Solomon, are accounted as little worth. But if they were plentiful as to the Greeks of old they would only seem the lovelier.
Some of the streets are very picturesque, with long narrowing vistas of houses and balconies, casements and quaint outlines, all in the strong light and shadow of sunshine, with perhaps a church tower and spire rising above all at the end, sharply outlined against the intensely brilliant blue of the sky.
Making way, we reach the gates of the city, which are still its glory, though so few remain of the twelve that once admitted to the interior. Some still retain their towers and machicolations. Outside these runs the famous river with its ancient bridges. Crossing one of them, and proceeding a distance of three miles down a straight, not very interesting road, you reach the famous port of Valencia: one of the finest ports in Spain, one of the largest harbours. After the close atmosphere of the town, the scene is agreeable and exhilarating.
CHAPTER XXXII.
OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
Port and harbour—Sunday and fresh air—In the market-place—De Nevada protests—A curse of the country—In the days gone by—On the breakwater—Invaded tramcar—De Nevada confirmed—Another crusade needed—Plaza de Toros—In Sunday dress—Domestic interiors—When the play was o'er—Bull-ring at night—Fitful dreams—Fever—Maître d'hôtel prescribes—Magic effect—Depart for Saguntum—Before the days of Rome—Primitive town—Days of the Greeks—Attacked by Hannibal—Rebuilt by the Romans—Absent guardian—The hunchback—Reappears with custodian—Doors open—Moorish fortress—Fathomless cisterns—Sad procession—Weeping mourners—Key of Valencia—Miguella—Time heals all wounds—Proposes coffee—Proud and pleased—Scenes that remain—In Barcelona—Drawing to a close—Sorrow and regret—Many experiences—Our Espluga friends—Loretta's gratitude—In the Calle de Fernando—A last favour—Glories of Spain—Eastern benediction.
OUR first visit to the port and harbour was on a Sunday. Labour was suspended, and vessels of all countries were flying their flags. From the end of the long breakwater we breathed freely. Before us stretched the wide shimmering sea, blue as the sky above. A very few white-sailed boats were gliding about—only in summer are they found in large numbers. On such a day as this, hot, glowing, glorious to us of the North, the soft-climed Valencians would not venture upon the water. An occasional fishing-boat strayed in and out, but all else was at peace. The whole place was deserted. There was a strange calm and quiet upon everything; almost an English "Sabbath stillness" in the air.
We wondered, but soon discovered the cause. This might have dawned upon us had we called to mind yesterday's experience.