hts before came up the street of Gomerez, and passed
around the hill under the Vermilion Towers.

I made the circuit of the walls before entering the Palace. In the Place
of the Cisterns, I stopped to take a drink of the cool water of the Darro,
which is brought thither by subterranean channels from the hills. Then,
passing the ostentatious pile commenced by Charles V., but which was never
finished, and never will be, nor ought to be, we walked along the southern
ramparts to the Tower of the Seven Floors, amid the ruins of winch I
discerned the top of the arch by which the unfortunate Boabdil quitted
Granada, and which was thenceforth closed for ever. In the Tower of the
Infantas, a number of workmen were busy restoring the interior, which has
been cruelly damaged. The brilliant _azulejo_, or tile-work, the delicate
arches and filigree sculpture of the walls, still attest its former
elegance, and give some color to the tradition that it was the residence
of the Moorish Princesses.

As we passed through the little village which still exists among the ruins
of the fortress, Mateo invited me to step in and see his father, the
genuine "honest Mateo," immortalized in the "Tales of the Alhambra." The
old man has taken up the trade of silk-weaving, and had a number of
gay-colored ribbons on his loom. He is more than sixty years old and now
quite gray-headed, but has the same simple manners, the same honest face
that attracted his temporary master. He spoke with great enthusiasm of Mr.
Irving, and brought out from a place of safety the "Alhambra" and the
"Chronicles of the Conquest," which he has carefully preserved. He then
produced an Andalusian sash, the work of his own hands, which he insisted
on binding around my waist, to see how it would look. I must next take off
my coat and hat, and put on his Sunday jacket and jaunty sombrero. "_Por
Dios_!" he exclaimed: "_que buen mozo_! Senor, you are a legitimate
Andalusian!" After this, of course, I could do no less than buy the sash.
"You must show it to Washington Irving," said he, "and tell him it was
made by Mateo's own hands;" which I promised. I must then go into the
kitchen, and eat a pomegranate from his garden--a glorious pomegranate,
with kernels of crimson, and so full of blood that you could not touch
them but it trickled through your fingers. El Marques, a sprightly dog,
and a great slate-colored cat, took possession of my legs, and begged for
a share of every mouthfu