g great keys. His eloquence had prevailed. Perhaps he had
promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. Panting and
breathless, they reached us.

"Ah, senor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "No one enters
without permission from the commandant. If he knew, it would be as much
as my place is worth--not that it is worth much. But he is away to-day;
gone to Valencia to the marriage of a friend. So I have some excuse; and
he will never know. I will admit you. The times I have opened these
gates! I am sixty-five, senor, and have been up and down, through summer
and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since I was fifteen. Pretty
near the end now."

Inserting the great key into the rough, rusty old lock, the rude doors
opened and admitted us.

[Illustration: RUINS OF SAGUNTUM.]

We found the fortress distinctly Moorish and very interesting. The
old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion.
Amidst the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she declared
to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. Below what was once
the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily
chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a
horror that had taken place in the past. Everything testified to the
strength of Saguntum of old.

From the walls the views are magnificent. Stretching across the wide
plain, one caught faint traces of Valencia and the shimmering sea; at
our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle
outlines.

As we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white
road. Harsh, discordant music from brass instruments rose upon the air.
Then we saw that it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly borne on
men's shoulders to the cemetery. The latter was near the town, enclosed
in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the
melancholy cypress. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed
and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. Near us stood our
curious messenger.

"Who is it?" we asked.

"A sad story, senor. A youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and
died. A week ago he was as well as you or I: full of energy and
enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the
future. His ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to
get his parents' consent. But he was their only child, and they were
loath to part with him. Ah! he has ta