“You’re wrong,” protested Don Alonso.
“Hardly....”
The distant barking of the dogs could still be heard. It was getting colder with every moment. They walked through the Rondas of Valencia and Atocha.
The solemn mass of a General Hospital, its windows illumined by pallid lights, rose before them.
“Inside there, at least, a fellow isn’t cold,” murmured the Snake-Man in a jovial tone that echoed like a painful plaint.
It was beginning to grow light; the grey mists of morning were scattering. Over the road some ox-carts came creaking. Far off the hens were cackling....
CHAPTER VIII
The Municipal Dungeons—The Returned Soldier—The Convent Soup