han those of Italy--the former recover strength; in the
brilliance of its sunshine, the blueness of its skies, the splendour of
its flowers and vegetation, the troubled mind finds peace and repose."

"Its system of irrigation--to descend to the commonplace," laughed de la
Torre--"is perfect. Does the council still sit in the Apostles'
Gateway?"

"Indeed it does," replied the priest. "And far from being commonplace,
the idea to me, surrounded by its halo of the past, is full of
picturesque romance."

"What is that?" asked madame. "It is dangerous to make these remarks
before an inquiring mind."

"The matter is simple," said de Nevada. "Valencia is the most perfectly
irrigated province in Spain, not excepting Granada. Especially is that
the case in the surrounding neighbourhood. You must have noticed narrow
channels running through the fields as you passed in the train. The
system presents infinite difficulties. Not one of the least is that all
shall share alike in the fertilizing streams. In Granada a good deal is
done by signals, and occasionally in the night-silence you may hear the
silver bell sounding upon the air and carried from field to field: token
that the dams are opened and the water flows. In Valencia they have
nothing so poetical. The tribunal was instituted centuries ago by the
Moors. It has been handed down from generation to generation and still
continues. Being perfect, the system works well. Every Thursday morning
seven judges sit in the great doorway of the cathedral, and hear all
complaints relating to irrigation. These judges choose each other from
the yeomen and irrigators of the neighbourhood. They pronounce sentence,
and against that sentence there is no appeal. The judges are integrity
itself. It is their motto, and it seems as impossible for them to go
wrong as for a Freemason to betray the secrets of his craft. I think the
system might with advantage be adopted by other tribunals."

"I should like to see and converse with these judges," said madame, "and
decorate them with the order of the Golden Fleece. Surely they deserve
it?"

"That order, I fear, is reserved for those of higher rank," replied the
priest. "Yet I have often myself thought they should wear an order of
Distinguished Merit: a sort of Cross of the Legion of Honour--after the
French idea--open to all ranks and classes. But as you proceed on your
journey to-morrow evening, you will not be here on a Thursday. The
judges are i