COLONIA: RUINED FORTRESS WALL.
A CAMPO GRAVEYARD.
To face page 218.
In places the surface of the old masonry is level and wide; in others it is necessary to leap from point to point just as it is in the case of the rocks below. Scrambling and walking thus for several hundred yards, the way lies past a collection of ruined houses, the massive walls of which prick upwards in gaunt desolation. Beyond these again is a narrow passage, paved principally by the chance falling of the masonry, that leads into one of the actual streets of the town.
The medley here is fascinating from the mere force of its quaintness. The first houses that flank the slender thoroughfare as it winds its way uphill are a few pink erections, fairly modern, with windows plainly barred, and open doorways, through which is visible the foliage that decorates the patio within. Side by side with these is a building of quite another type, an old grey house, stately and imposing, though now little beyond a shell of ruins. Its front is thickly set with the remnants of graceful balconies, and with broken shields and coats of arms. Upon the massive doorway is an ancient bronze knocker in the form of a human hand. But the hapless instrument has been silent now for many a generation, since at the back of the doorway itself is nothing beyond a confusion of tumbled stone into whose crevices the roots of the intruding shrubs and flowers have pressed themselves.
The street is quite deserted; the temptation to raise the bronze hand and bang out the echoes is almost irresistible. It is certain that one could arouse nothing beyond the ghosts of the past. Yet the answer to such an appeal might prove a little too intense for the modern tranquillity of mind. Confined to the days of peace, the vision would be well enough. The house, the walls, the patio, the fretwork of the balconies, the carving of the coats of arms—all these would be intact and hung about with humanity. In obedience to the most commonplace demands of the all-pervading romance, breeched men, whose long-draped cloaks hid the lace and buckles of their costume, would send out their voices and the tinklings of their guitars towards the señoritas, whose soft eyes glowed beneath a tremendous headgear, and who wore their filmy wrappings and short skirts with true Iberian grace.