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ST. JOSEPH AND THE INFANT JESUS. Murillo |
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. Murillo |
chapel royal before the silver altar where Saint Ferdinand is buried. Alive, he was King Ferdinand III; dead, he became a saint, because with his own hands he had carried fagots to burn heretics. A sound of hammers echoed through the great cathedral.
“The fiestas are over,” said Pemberton; “they are taking down the monument over the tomb of Ferdinand Columbus.”
As we passed out through the Puerta del Lagarte under the great crocodile, the twin organs thundered, the choir sang a deep “Amen,” the bells in the Giralda clanged a parting peal.
“Heavens!” murmured Patsy, as from the train window we looked back at the darling of Andalusia, lying in the fold of Guadalquiver’s arm, “what a beautiful world this is!” He blinked as he said it, as if there were tears in his eyes.
“Quien no ha vista Sevilla,
no ha vista maravilla.”
VII
CORDOVA
Other towns may be better to live in. None are better to be born in than Cordova.—El Gran Capitan