thicken the
men of Aragon.

One night, when a half moon hung over the domes of the Cathedral of the
Pillar, a man made his way through the undergrowth by the riverside and
stumbled across the shingle towards the open shed which marks the
landing-place of the only ferry across the Ebro that Saragossa possesses.
The ferry-boat was moored to the landing-stage. It is a high-prowed,
high-sterned vessel, built on Viking lines, from a picture the observant
must conclude, by a landsman carpenter. It swings across the river on a
wire rope, with a running tackle, by the force of the stream and the aid
of a large rudder.

The man looked cautiously into the vine-clad shed. It was empty. He crept
towards the boat and found no one there. Then he examined the chain that
moored it. There was no padlock. In Spain to this day they bar the window
heavily and leave the door open. To the cunning mind is given in this
custom the whole history of a great nation.

He stood upright and looked across the river. He was a tall man with a
clean cut face and a hard mouth. He gave a sharp sigh as he looked at
Saragossa outlined against the sky. His attitude and his sigh seemed to
denote along journey accomplished at last, an object attained perhaps or
within reach, which is almost the same thing, but not quite. For most men
are happier in striving than in possession. And no one has yet decided
whether it is better to be among the lean or the fat.

Don Francisco de Mogente sat down on the bench provided for those that
await the ferry, and, tilting back his hat, looked up at the sky. The
northwest wind was blowing--the Solano--as it only blows in Aragon. The
bridge below the ferry has, by the way, a high wall on the upper side of
it to break this wind, without which no cart could cross the river at
certain times of the year. It came roaring down the Ebro, bending the
tall poplars on the lower bank, driving before it a cloud of dust on the
Saragossa side. It lashed the waters of the river to a gleaming white
beneath the moon. And all the while the clouds stood hard and sharp of
outline in the sky. They hardly seemed to move towards the moon. They
scarcely changed their shape from hour to hour. This was not a wind of
heaven, but a current rushing down from the Pyrenees to replace the hot
air rising from the plains of Aragon.

Nevertheless, the clouds were moving towards the moon, and must soon hide
it. Don Francisco de Mogente observed this, and sa