ven me. Why did you not leave me yesterday
to my solitude and devotions, and pass on, as others have done? You are
the first who ever stopped and spoke. To-day I feel almost as though I
were longing once more for the pleasures of the world."

[Illustration: MONS SERRATUS IN CLOUDLAND.]

We knew it was only a momentary reaction. He had the musician's highly
nervous and sensitive organisation. Our meeting had awakened long
dormant chords, memories of the past; but the effect would soon cease,
and he would go back to his monkish life and world of melody, all the
better and stronger for the momentary break in the monotony of his daily
round.

We did not linger over breakfast. At the door a mule stood ready
saddled. This also went with us in case of need. H. C. and the monk
were capable of all physical endurance. Like Don Quixote they would have
fought with windmills or slain their Goliaths. Nature had been less
kindly to us, and the mule was necessary.

It would be difficult to describe that glorious morning. When we first
started, the path was still shrouded in darkness. We carried lighted
lanterns, and Miguel, following behind with the mule, looked a weird,
picturesque object as he threw his gleams and shadows around. Our path
wound round the mountain, ever ascending. One by one the stars were
going out; in the far east the faintest glimmer was creeping above the
horizon. This gradually spread until darkness fled away and light broke.
We were high up, approaching St. Michael's chapel, when the sun rose and
the sky suddenly seemed filled with glory.

It was a scene beyond imagination. The vast world below us was shrouded
in white mist. Under the influence of the sun this gradually rolled
away, curling about the mountain in every fantastic shape and form, and
finally disappeared like a great sea sweeping itself from the earth. The
whole vast plain lay before us. Towns and villages unveiled themselves
by magic. Across the plains the Pyrenees rose in flowing undulations,
their snow-caps standing out against the blue sky. The winding river
might be traced in its course by the thin line of vapour that hung over
it like a white shroud. The whole Catalonian world, all the sea coast
from Gerona to Tarragona, came into view, with the blue waters of the
Mediterranean sleeping in the sunshine. In the far distance we thought
we discerned our lovely and beloved Majorca, and were afterwards told
this was possible.

All about us w