e gabled houses on the hill slopes crowned by that
splendid semi-religious fortress, the tall tower cleaving the sky.

From this in days gone by the bells had rung the people to church, and
hastened the steps and shortened the breath of many a fat old canon who,
purple and panting, crept into his place before the altar after service
had begun. But those days are over. For nearly two hundred years the
bells have been silent. The sober cassock of the priest no longer haunts
the precincts. Sentries with gun and bayonet now rule, and signs and
symbols of warfare fill up the ancient aisles and desecrate the sacred
pavement.

Gazing upon the faint outlines in the darkness of night, the gleam of a
distant lantern coming up a narrow side street caught our eye. It was a
watchman, and instinct told us he was none other than our Burgos
_Sereno_.

He waved his lantern more energetically than usual, as though expecting
to find the inhabitants of Pandemonium lurking in secret corners. As he
walked, his staff struck the ground "in measured moments," keeping time
with his footsteps. "It is twelve of the night," he cried, "and the
night is fair. _El sereno._" We gradually approached him, knowing well
we were in his mind. The rays suddenly flashed upon us, and the lantern
had peace.

"Senor, instinct told me you were still in Lerida. Midnight seems your
hour for walking. In truth it is far better than midday, for the world
is sleeping and we have the stars in the sky. I hope that wily porter
does not mean to play you the same trick to-night. To-day fifty people
have asked me if the town had been bombarded, declaring they expected to
see the place in ruins. Have you seen his wife, senor? She is not the
angel she looks----"

"Are you not rather hard upon the angels, _Sereno_?"

"I don't think I quite meant to put it that way," he returned, with a
laugh that seemed to come from great depths. "No, she does not look an
angel--and she is not one either. It is said that when her husband
misbehaves, she beats him with her washing-pin; and it is also said
that more than once she has held it over the landlord himself. It may be
a fable, but when a woman has no voice she is bound to find some other
way of venting her spleen. I don't think the porter sleeps on a bed of
roses, though his wife is named Rose, and he tries to make the best of
his bargain."

"How did you leave Burgos?" we asked, feeling speculations on the
porter's domestic rela