the
streets and we followed at leisure. The men at the wine-press were just
giving up work. Inside, in large rooms, they showed us wide tubs full
of rich red juice, waiting to be made into wine.

"You have enough here for the whole neighbourhood," we remarked.

"It is all ordered, senor, and as much again if we can get it. We are
famed for our wine. May we offer you a really good specimen bottle, just
to show you its excellence? It would be a most friendly act on your
part--and a little return for your splendid tobacco and cigars."

"By all means," cried H. C., before we had time to accept or decline.
"We are all as thirsty as fishes--and as hungry as hunters."

"It is last year's wine," said our cellarman, returning with a bottle
and drawing the cork. Then he hospitably filled tumblers and with a
broad smile upon his face waited our approval. We gave it without
reserve. It was excellent.

"And as pure as when it was still in the grape," said the man. "Take my
word for it, senor, you won't get such stuff as this in Madrid or
Barcelona. It goes through your veins and exhilarates you, and if you
drank three bottles of it you might feel lively, but you would have no
headache."

We owed the wine-presser a debt of gratitude. His invigorating draught
was doubly welcome after our late experience, and we went our way
feeling there are many good Samaritans in the world.

We had some time to wait in the little town, and made closer
acquaintance with its curious old streets: the overhanging eaves and
waterspouts that stretched out like grinning gargoyles; the massive
walls of many of the houses, and casements with rich mouldings that
suggested a bygone day of wealth and prosperity.

In our wandering we came upon the man Loretta had pointed out as her
future husband. He was almost in the very same spot we had last seen
him, and his head was now adorned with a white cap. We stopped him.

"So, Lorenzo, you are going to espouse Loretta."

"With your permission, senor. I hope you are not going to forbid the
marriage?"

[Illustration: RUINS OF POBLET.]

"Quite the contrary. We offer you our congratulations, and think you
a very lucky man, Loretta a fortunate woman."

"Thank you, senor," replied Lorenzo, laughing--he seemed made up of
good-humour. "I think it promises well. You see we are neither of us
children, but old enough to know our own mind. Loretta is twenty-eight,
I am thirty-two, and as far as I can make out, w