some exquisite Moorish traces and outlines, though
chiefly by way of restoration. It was built by a Sheikh of Zaragoza as a
royal fortress, with almost impregnable walls. Ferdinand the Catholic
gave it over to the Inquisition party to add to the power of this
wretched tribunal, partly because in these strong walls the hated judges
found a safe refuge after the murder of the popular and ill-fated
Arbues.

In the French war it was much injured by Suchet, who turned it into a
barrack, then degraded this ancient palace of the Moorish kings and the
kings of Aragon to the rank of a prison. Alphonso XII. restored the
palace, and had it redecorated as far as possible to imitate its ancient
splendour. The staircase is very fine, and the ceilings of some of the
rooms are magnificent. One of the rooms is called the Salon of Santa
Isabel, because here that future queen of Hungary, so famous for her
goodness, was born in 1271. It is richly decorated in blue and gold.
There is a small octagonal mosque of great beauty, which has been left
just as it was in the days of the Moors; and some of the horseshoe
doorways, in outline at least, have not changed. The visit was full of
interest, and in spite of all alteration, carried us back to the days
when that wonderful people reigned in Zaragoza. In the upper part was a
magnificent armoury, kept in good order by the soldiers--for this fine
old building has again been turned into a barrack, and devoted to
military use.

The day passed on to night, and there came an hour when we found
ourselves sitting for a time in the cafe that is said to be the largest
in Spain, studying human nature, listening to the music--for once an
interesting and civilised performance. The room was gorgeously fitted up
with gilding and mirrors that seemed to reflect a million lights. The
atmosphere was fast growing to that state of blue haze which the
Spaniards delight in, many of whom are said to carry on their smoke in
their sleep by some process of conjuring only to be acquired after long
practice.

We happened to be looking away from the orchestra, in deep study of a
curious group to our right--a group which seemed to comprise four
generations. One was one of the oddest little old women we had ever
seen, with a wonderfully wrinkled face, and small restless eyes sharp as
an eagle's, and withered hands that looked like a bird's claws. This was
the little great-grandmother. She had by no means passed into her
dot