nner?" H. C.. had not expired;
the Dragon had evidently not frightened away all earthly desires.

Fortunately dinner was forthcoming, though when we had finally settled
down and removed the stains of travel, and H. C. had recovered his
nerves, the night was growing apace. We plunged into wide passages, and
after half a dozen wrong turnings at length found ourselves in the
dining-room, large, lofty and well lighted. The chef sent up a civilised
bill of fare, and the landlord himself waited upon us; whilst under the
influence of fortifying dishes and refined wines the charms of the
Manresa novice faded into the background, and H. C. felt almost equal to
challenging the Lerida Dragon to single combat as a libel upon her sex.
We were conducted back to our rooms by quite a procession, including the
thin landlord and imposing landlady, headed by the Dragon bearing a
flambeau.

Once on our balcony, we found the night had changed for the better.
Clouds had disappeared, stars shone, the trees before us were rustling
gently in the wind, calmness and repose had fallen upon the world. It
was past ten o'clock; the place seemed still and deserted as a city of
the dead; not a sound broke the silence as we went forth for a
night-study of Lerida.

It was intensely dark. Here and there an oil lamp glimmered, making
darkness visible. Presently we found ourselves on the bridge, looking
down upon the waters of the river that runs so closely to the town as to
reflect its outlines. To-night it was too dark to reflect anything,
excepting here and there a faint track of light thrown by a distant
star. The surface was not disturbed by any sort of craft.

To the right rose the houses of the town, and above them faint and
shadowy against the night sky, the outlines of the wonderful old
cathedral, perched on its rock 300 feet above the town itself.

We tried to reach it, climbing and stumbling up the narrow ill-paved
thoroughfares, that seemed to wind and twist about like the contortions
of a snake. The darkness might be felt. There was not a solitary light
to guide our feet, and every now and then we found ourselves charging a
dead wall as Don Quixote charged the windmills.

Once H. C. plunged against the door of a low cottage, and before he
could turn round there rushed out a demon in light attire with a torrent
of hard words and a blunderbuss-sort of weapon. Fortunately for H. C. a
dog also rushed out at the moment between the man's legs,