Tarragona.

Though bound for Valencia, Tarragona the delightful possessed charms
Valencia could never rival. Not again should we meet with such a
cathedral, such cloisters, or even so original and enthusiastic a
sacristan. We were leaving all that wonderful historical atmosphere that
made this exceptional place a Dream of the Past, and great was our
regret.

We had stood near the tomb of the Scipios and fancied ourselves back in
the days when our own era was dawning. Before us the ever-changing yet
changeless sea looked just as it must have looked when they, loving it,
decided to sleep within sound of its waters. In a last moonlight visit
to the cathedral we had waited and listened in hope of hearing
Quasimodo's footsteps, seeing his quaint and curious form approaching.

He never came. No unseen talisman whispered to him our desire. Perhaps
it was as well. A second experience is never the same as the first. The
subtle charm of the new and the strange, the unexpected, the unprepared,
is no longer there. Quasimodo now dwelt in our minds as a being
spiritual, intangible, of another world. That he belonged to the highest
order in this, is certain. The influence of his music haunted us, haunts
us still. In waking and sleeping dreams we live over and over again the
weird charm and experience of that wonderful night; see the moonbeams
falling in shafts of clear-cut light across pillars and aisles and
arches; hear and feel the touch, as of a passing breath, of the ghostly
visitants from Shadow-land. All the marvellous music steals into our
soul. There can be but one Quasimodo in the world. We doubt if there was
ever another at any time endowed with his marvellous faculty. It was
pain and grief to feel that we should see and hear him no more.

Our very host added slightly to our reluctant leaving by declaring that
if we would only stay another week he would charge us half-price for
everything: nay, we should settle our own terms. Francisco was
inconsolable, but perhaps a little selfishness was mixed with his
sorrow.

"No more holidays," he cried. "No more excursions to Poblet; no escape
from French lessons. And yet, senor, there are other places besides
Poblet, and every one of them would have delighted you. Think of all the
lost luncheons; all the first-class compartments that will now be empty.
There are lovely excursions, too, by sea." The boy's catalogue of
grievances was as long as Don Giovanni's list of transgressions