ad mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on
the embankment. Fragments of the old citadel lay about in all
directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading
to underground vaults. Over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of
vanished hands and departed glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we
sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast
army; the ground trembled with the tramp of horsemen, march of troops.
In imagination we saw the dead and dying, the bold resistance to human
foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. The air was full
of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. Then the
vision passed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before
us. The grass on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme
scented the air with its pungent fragrance. A little below, stretching
far round, were the old town walls, grey and massive.

The ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of
towers, walls and ancient houses. San Pedro was conspicuous, and just
beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. In its rich
sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping
trees and many fruits of the earth. To-day, it was a scene of peace and
plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again.
Above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral
overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in
perpetual benediction. Beside us sat Father Anselmo, his pale refined
face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness.

Suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of
mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed
to die away amidst the distant Pyrenees.

"It is my summons," said the priest. "I would fain linger with you, but
duty calls me elsewhere. I cannot say farewell. Let us again meet
to-morrow."

We promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pass
over his expressive face. Following his intent gaze, our eyes rested
upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of a _Religieuse_, flitting
silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. Miguel,
who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint.

"Sister Anastasia," said Anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the
fact. "She is bound on some errand of mercy. May Heaven have her in its