“I was very young—only fourteen years old,” I continued, flattering myself that my modest introduction had not been ineffective, “when one evening I came to London from my home. It was in January, in the middle of winter, and the whole country was white with snow.”
“Pardon me, Captain,” said Blas, “but you have got the cucumber by the wrong end. We say that January is in summer.”
“Not in my country, where the seasons are reversed,” I said.
“When I rose next morning it was dark as night, for a black fog had fallen upon the city.”
“A black fog!” exclaimed Lechuza.
“Yes, a black fog that would last all days and make it darker than night, for though the lamps were lighted in the streets they gave no light.”
“Demons!” exclaimed Rivarola; “there is no water in the bucket. I must go to the well for some or we shall have none to drink in the night.”
“You might wait till I finish,” I said.
“No, no, Captain,” he returned. “Go on with your story; we must not be without water.” And, taking up the bucket, he trudged off.
“Finding it was going to be dark all day,” I continued, “I determined to go a little distance away, not out of London, you will understand, but about three leagues from my hotel to a great hill, where I thought the fog would not be so dark, and where there is a palace of glass.”