and dark. We
also said good-night to the sleeping world.

The next morning rose in due course, but not with promise. Heavy rain
had fallen during the night, lowering clouds foretold more. Just now,
however, they had proclaimed a truce.

We went out and felt that the grey sky was in harmony with the grey
tones of the town. Nevertheless Spain essentially needs sunshine to
bring out all its colouring and brilliancy. Under dark clouds it falls
for the most part flat and dead, its finest effects lost.

"The rainy season has begun," said H. C. "We are in for a spell of wet
weather. Generally it comes in September. This year it has obligingly
put it off until November. My usual ill-luck."

"I fear it is so," said Jose our host's son, who, as we have said,
volunteered to pilot us about the town and show forth its hidden
wonders--delighted to air his French and give us Spanish lessons. "We
have a weather-wise prophet who never was known to go wrong; a great
meteorologist. He has just written to the papers to say we are to have a
month's deluge."

A cheerful beginning. As it proved, they were all mistaken, but at the
moment the skies seemed to confirm the tale. All the same we would not
lose hope, which has brought many a sinking ship into harbour. So we put
on a cheerful countenance, bid them take heart of grace and their
umbrellas.

It would be invidious to enter, at the end of a chapter, upon the
wonders of the town which met us at every step and turning; but we must
record one experience before concluding. Let us close our eyes, take
flight upwards and alight at the head of that vast stone staircase with
our backs to the cathedral.

We see this morning what last night was veiled in darkness. The town
lies chiefly to our left. We overlook a sea of red and grey roofs. To
our right are the old walls with their gateways, round bastions and
irregular outlines. Near to us is a church-tower, graceful, octagonal,
excellent in design; but the upper part of its spire is gone and we can
only imagine its once perfect beauty.

Low down beyond the town lies the river, winding through a picturesque
country. We can even see the reeds and rushes that border its banks, but
cannot hear their murmur as we did last night. If Pan still pipes it is
to the pixies.

In the distance the Pyrenees are sleeping in graceful, long-drawn
undulations. Nothing can be lovelier than their outlines. Some are
snow-capped and stand out pure and white