and
specially brought to Spain by St. Peter. If in St. Luke's best style, he
was certainly not a Michel Angelo. The image, however, is highly prized
by the religious order, as having worked countless miracles and brought
them fame and wealth.

In crossing towards the chapel we met our funny little monk. "Ah, you
are going into the church?" he cried. "You will find the fathers at
prayer--it is nearly the hour for the refectory. And you will see the
black Virgin--the beautiful black image--carved by St. Luke--carried by
St. Peter--blessed by twelve popes! No wonder she performs miracles.
Withered arms and legs come to life again. I have seen old people turn
young. Once when I looked at her she blinked with both eyes. It is true
I am short-sighted, but I am certain of the fact: as certain as that I
saw ghosts in the graveyard on All Souls' Eve. Senor, that wonderful
black image is the one great thing to see at Montserrat. The cleverness
of the railway, the beauty of the landscape, the grandeur of the
mountain, the splendour of the church--all this is very well in its way;
but it is as nothing compared with the black image. Go and study it, and
if you look long enough perhaps she will blink her eyes at you too, or
bow her head. It is quite possible."

Then he skipped through the quadrangle back to his den.

This quadrangle was very interesting; large, quiet, and solidly built:
an outer court to the holy of holies, which was the church itself. Under
the mountain-side, its covered passages ever seemed in deep gloom and
shadow; a death-in-life atmosphere hung about it. In days gone by it was
one of the loveliest nooks in the world, for the ancient buildings were
beautiful and refined. Gothic cloisters and Norman doorways mingled
their outlines in close companionship without rivalry, and the beholder
was charmed at finding himself in an element where nothing jarred.

All has disappeared to make way for the modern traveller, whose name is
legion. Nothing remains but the one little Gothic fragment, with its
pointed windows and slender shafts. A lady in a mantilla graced them as
we stood looking at the Norman archway beyond: the more interesting of
the turtle-doves who had travelled with us from Monistrol. Her mate was
attending to the vulgar side of life, arranging a select repast with the
restaurant manager at the farther end of the settlement. We saw him come
out and advance towards her with that degree of fervour which gene