o her waist, making one wish that she had let her whole
wealth of tresses wander free. Eyes blue-black, full by turns of soft
love and sparkling mischief; Creole complexion, with blood rich as
marriage-wine coursing in the dimpled cheeks; teeth white as the fox's;
lips of clove-pink. And what a shape had she--ripe, firm, and piquant!
Do you wonder that I followed her with joy? Do you wonder that I began
weaving a romance? If you do, I pity you. Did I want a shallop? Of
course I did; but alas! might I not have echoed Burger's lament:

"The shallop of my peace is wrecked
On Beauty's shore."

She was a Carlist, I was sure of that. All the comely maidens were
Carlists. In the service of the King the most successful crimps were
"dashing white sergeants" in garter and girdle. And she took me for an
interesting Carlist fugitive, and she was determined to aid in my
escape. How ravishing! She was a Flora Macdonald, and I--would be a
Pretender. I had fully wound myself up to that as we entered Los
Pasages.

Los Pasages consists of rows of houses built on either side of a basin
of the sea, entered by a narrow chasm in the high rocky coast. Sailing
by it, one would never imagine that that cleft in the shore-line was a
gate to a natural harbour, locked against every wind, and large enough
to accommodate fleets, and whose waters are generally placid as a lake.
This secure haven, _statio benefida carinis_, is hidden away in the lap
of the timbered hills, and is approached by a passage (from which its
name is borrowed) which can be traversed in fifteen minutes. The change
from the boisterous Bay of Biscay, with its "white horses capering
without, to this Venetian expanse of water in a Swiss valley, dotted
with chalets and cottages, must have the effect of a magic
transformation on the emotional tar who has never been here before, and
whose chance it was to lie below when his ship entered. The refuge is
not unknown to English seamen, for there is a stirring trade in minerals
with Cardiff, in more tranquil times. But now Los Pasages is deserted
from the bar down to the uttermost point of its long river-like stretch
inland, except by the smacks and small boats of the native fishers, a
tiny tug, and a large steamer from Seville which is lying by the wharf.
There is no noise of traffic; the one narrow street echoes to our
tramping feet as I follow my charming cicerone, who has started up for
me like some good spirit of a fairy-t