“Columbus was born to wander!” said Pemberton. “Even his poor bones have no rest. From Valladolid, where he died, they were taken to Seville; from Seville to Santo Domingo; from Santo Domingo to Havana; from there,—read the inscription, that tells the story.
“Quando la ingrata America se emancipe de la madre España, Sevilla obtuvo el deposito de los restos de Colon y su ayutamiente eligio este monumento.”
“The sculptor was a poor artist and a good Spaniard,” said Pemberton. “In spite of the thing’s being so baroque, taken with the inscription, and the date, 1901, it is moving; it expresses the pride and humiliation of this brave people who won the new world only to lose it. I tell my friends here that the loss of Cuba and the Philippines was the dawn of a renaissance, the beginning of a new Spain. It was cutting back the vine that had gone to wood. Now the sap runs, there is new life, fresh growth. Knockdown blows are what men and nations need to get up their muscle. He said it,—your father: ‘Obstacles are things to be overcome!’”
The pigeons fluttered in and out of the Giralda, careless of the great bells swinging to and fro, and the shadow of their wings wove a new pattern on the face of the roseate tower.
“Christ is risen!” The bells rang out the triumphant pean. A shadow larger than that cast by a dove’s wing passed over the face of the Giralda.
“Take Concepcion home with you,” said Pemberton, quickly, in English; “she did not see it. Do not, if you can help it, tell her.” He led the way to a side street, made some excuse to his wife,
THE GIRALDA, SEVILLE.