athen gods.
The portion of the aqueduct visible from the road was as it were a
gigantic bridge with two tiers of arches. It had all the tone of the
centuries, all the solidity which had kept it standing firm as a rock.
Nearly one hundred feet high and eight hundred feet long, it spanned a
green and lonely valley or ravine covered with heather. The people call
it el puente del diablo, and may be forgiven for thinking that more than
human hands helped to perfect the work.

We went to the topmost height and walked over the giddy stoneway to the
very centre. There we sat down and felt ourselves masters of the world.
Wild flowers grew in the cracks and crevices, and ferns and fronds, and
H. C. stretched over the yawning gulf for one almost out of reach, until
we gave him up for lost and began to compose his epitaph. But he plucked
his flower, and after looking at it with a sort of tender reverence,
placed it carefully in his pocket-book.

"Who is that for?" we asked, for there was no mistaking his soft
expression.

"The fair Costello. That exquisite vision that we saw in the opera-house
at Gerona. The landlord gave me her full name and address before we
left. I am thinking of proposing to her. Her presence haunts me still."

We knew how much this was worth; how long it would last.

"You would bestow it more worthily on Rosalie. There are many fair
Costellos in the world--there can be only one Rosalie."

"Do you think so?" replied this whirligig heart. "Certainly Rosalie's
eyes were matchless; I tremble when I think of them. And then we got to
know her, which is an advantage. After all it shall go to Rosalie. The
fair Costello might have a temper--there's no knowing."

[Illustration: ROMAN AQUEDUCT, NEAR TARRAGONA.]

We were undoubtedly in a situation favourable to romance. The scene was
magnificent. Surrounding us was a wide stretch of undulating country.
The land was rich and cultivated; towns and villages reposed on the
hill-sides. Far off to the right the smoke of busy Valls ascended,
and through the gentle haze we traced the outlines of its fine old
church. Following the long white road before us, the eye at length
rested on the blue smoke of quarrelsome, disaffected Reus, which
prospers in spite of its Republican tendencies. Here more distinctly we
traced the fine tower of the old church of San Pedro, in which Fortuny
the painter lies buried. Distant hills bounded the horizon, shutting out
the world beyond.