Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard to speak. No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest impression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him.
But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however, and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village eight or nine miles from their destination.
Suddenly Jorge cried out. "Look there, señor, the city is on fire."
Don Juan looked. A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southern sky. With a shudder he bowed his head, and veiled his face from the awful sight.
"That fire is without the gate," he said at last. "Pray for the souls that are passing in anguish now."
Noble, heroic souls! Probably Juliano Hernandez, possibly Fray Constantino, was amongst them. These were the only names that occurred to Don Juan's mind, or were breathed in his fervent, agitated prayer.
"Yonder is the posada, señor," said the attendant presently.
"Nay, Jorge, we will ride on. There will be no sleepers in Seville to-night."
"But, señor," remonstrated the servant, "the horses are weary. We have travelled far to-day already."
"Let them rest afterwards," said Juan briefly. Motion, just then, was an absolute necessity to him. He could not have rested anywhere, within sight of that awful glare.