Madrid, with its yellowish dwellings veiled in a cloud of dust, came into view. The high window-panes were aglow with the reflection of the setting sun. From the Paseo del Canal, crossing a stubble patch, they reached the Plaza de las Peñuelas, then, after going up another street they climbed the Paseo de las Acacias.
They entered the Corralón. Manuel and Vidal, after having arranged to meet the gang on the following Sunday, climbed the stairway to Señor Ignacio's house and as they drew near to the cobbler's door they heard cries.
"Father's giving the old lady a beating," murmured Vidal. "There won't be much to eat today. I'm going off to sleep."
"And how do I get to the other house?" asked Manuel.
"All you have to do is walk along the Ronda until you reach the Aguila street stairway. You can't miss it."
Manuel followed the directions. It was fearfully hot; the air was thick with dust. A few men were playing cards in tavern doorways, and in others they were dancing in embrace to the strains of a barrel-organ.
When Manuel reached the Aguila Street stairway it was getting dark. He sat down to rest a while in the Campillo de Gil Imón. From this elevated point could be seen the yellowish country, growing darker and darker with approaching night, and the chimneys and housetops sharply outlined against the horizon. The sky, blue and green above, was flushed with red nearer the earth; it darkened and assumed sinister hues,—coppery reds, purplish reds.
Above the mudwalls jutted the turrets and the cypresses of San Isidro cemetery; a round cupola stood out clearly in the atmosphere; at its top rose an angel with wings outspread, as if about to take flight against the flaming, blood-red background of evening.
Above the embanked clouds of the twilight shone a pale star in a green border, and on the horizon, animated by the last breath of day, could be discerned the hazy silhouettes of distant mountains.