ANSELMO THE PRIEST.
Beauties of age--Apostles' Doorway--How the old bishops kept out of
temptation--Interior of cathedral--Its vast nave--Days of
Charlemagne--And of the Moors--A giant dwarfed--Rare choir--Surly
priest--And a more kindly--Our showman--Dazzling treasures--Father
Anselmo--Romantic story--Heaven or the world?--Doubts--The gentle
Rosalie decides--Sister Anastasia--Told in the sacristy--A
heart-confession--Anselmo's mysticism--Heresy--Charms of
antiquity--Scene of his triumph--Celestial vision--Church of San
Pedro--Pagan interior--Rare cloisters--Desecrated church--Singular
scene--Chiaroscuro--Miguel the carpenter--His opinions--Daily life
a religion--Anselmo improves his opportunity--"A reflected
light"--Ruined citadel--War of Succession--Alvarez and
Marshall--Gerona in decadence--A revelation--Dreamland--Midday
vision.
The colonel disappeared, and we went our way through narrow, tortuous,
deserted wynds until we found ourselves in the quaint cathedral square.
Here again we were surrounded by the beauties of antiquity. Before us
was the south front of the cathedral with its deeply-arched Apostles'
Doorway at which we had knocked in vain last night. At right angles, its
grey walls of exactly the same tone as the cathedral, was the Bishop's
Palace, its picturesque windows guarded by ancient ironwork. Why so
carefully secured? Had the mediaeval bishops feared a reversal of
things--serenades from fair dames yielding to the charm of forbidden
fruit? Or mistrusting their own strength had wisely put temptation out
of reach? Ancient walls are discreet and disclose nothing.
The outer gloom was intensified when we passed within the cathedral.
After a time pillars and arches and outlines grew more or less visible,
a shadowy distinctness full of mystery, appealing to the senses.
The vast nave is the widest Gothic vault in existence and on entering
strikes one with astonishment. So bold was the architect's design
considered that it created consternation in the minds of Bishop, Dean
and Chapter then ruling. Council after council was summoned and opinions
were taken from the great architects of foreign countries. Finally a
jury of twelve men was appointed who gave their verdict in favour of
Boffy, and the nave was erected.
This was in the year 1416. There had existed a cathedral on this very
spot since the eighth century and the days of Charlemagne. Like so many
of those early cathedrals it was pulled down and rebuilt; and sometimes
it happened that the new was no improvement on the old. This was not the
case with Gerona. The cathedral was rebuilt in 1016, but the nave was
reserved for Boffy and his genius four hundred years later. That early
cathedral was turned into a mosque when the Moors took Gerona, but they
allowed Catholic services to be held in the Church of San Filiu, close
at hand, now shorn of part of its spire. In 1015 the Moors were expelled
and the old cathedral was reinstated.
The nave has the fault of being too short, and Boffy could not fail to
see that it wants in proportion. Either space or funds failed him, and
the giant had to be dwarfed. Still it remains gigantic with a clear
width of seventy-three feet. Toulouse, next in width, has sixty-three
feet; Westminster Abbey only thirty-eight feet. For the effect of
contrast the smaller choir and aisles throw up the proportions of the
vast vault. Over all is its wonderful tone; whilst the obscure light
brings out the pointed arches of choir and chapels and the slender
fluted pillars in softened outlines.
The choir has a magnificent retablo and baldachino of wood and silver: a
rare work of art dating back to the year 1320: so promising that we
wished to see the treasures of the sacristy. It was the duty of a
certain priest to show them. The priests take the office in turn. To-day
he whose turn it was proved unamiable. "He would not show them; had
other things to do; we must come another day," hurriedly buttoning his
heavy black cloak as he spoke; an ill-favoured example of his race,
short, swarthy, unshaven. We explained that our hours were limited.
Without further parley he marched rapidly down the aisle, cloak flying,
hobnailed shoes waking desecrating echoes.
Then another and kindlier priest came up; altogether a different and
more refined specimen of humanity. He would gladly show us the treasures
if we would wait whilst he sought the keys. With these he soon returned
and thought he had been long. "I am sorry to keep you," he said, "but
they were not in their place. Now let me turn showman and do the
honours."
Leading the way into the large sacristy he unlocked a cupboard and took
out a key. With this he opened a drawer and took out another key. The
treasure was well guarded. Finally he swung back great doors and our
eyes were dazzled as he lighted a beautiful old lamp whose rays flashed
upon gemmed and jewelled crooks and crosses, enamelled plates and
chalice, a wealth of gold and silver ornaments, many dating back to the
twelfth century. Some of the crosses were magnificent in design and
execution, some had strange and interesting histories. Then he showed us
rare and wonderful needlework rich in gold thread and coloured silks,
also dating back seven or eight hundred years. He explained everything
in a quaint fashion of his own, then took us through a series of rooms
each having its special attraction. Amongst the pictures were one or two
of rare merit and a very early period.
These rooms and their treasures were well worth the little trouble it
had cost to see them. Moreover we were brought into contact with an
amiable ecclesiastic full of refinement and romance.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.]
"It is a pleasure to show them to you," he said, when we thanked him. "I
love all these things amongst which my life has been spent, for I hardly
recall the time when I was not attached to the cathedral. As a child I
was an acolyte, and remember the delight with which I used to turn the
wheel at the altar and listen to its silver chiming. I was never happy
but in church, attending on the priests, filling every office permitted
to a boy. From the age of ten I determined to be a priest myself and
never lost sight of that hope--though I once hesitated. But I was poor,
and don't know whether it would have come to pass unaided by one of our
canons who was rich and good; educated and half adopted me, and dying
four years ago left me a sufficient portion of his wealth. I almost
think of myself as one of those romances which only occasionally happen
in life. But there was a moment"--he smiled almost sadly--"when I was
sorely tempted to abandon religion for the world."
"For what reason?" we asked, for he paused. Evidently he wished the
question, and there was something so interesting about him that we were
willing to linger and listen.
"A very ordinary reason. I daresay you can guess, for it was the old,
old story: nothing less than love. I had not yet taken religious vows
and was free to choose. Should it be earth or heaven? Few perhaps have
been more completely enthralled than I. Walking and sleeping my thoughts
were filled with the gentle Rosalie. She was beautiful and I thought her
perfect. Outward grace witnessed to her inward purity of soul.
"To make my conflict harder, she returned all my affection. It was
perhaps singular that her life too had been destined to the cloister, as
mine to the Church. For one whole year we both struggled, miserable and
unsettled. Every fresh meeting only seemed to strengthen our attachment.
An excellent opening in the world presented itself--might we take this
as an indication that Heaven favoured our desires? It was a sore strait
and perhaps we should not have done wrong to yield. During the daylight
hours it seemed so. But night after night I awoke with one verse ringing
in my ears: 'He that having put his hand to the plough looketh back, is
not fit for the Kingdom of Heaven.' In my excited, almost diseased
imagination, the text seemed to stand out in the darkness in letters of
fire. I tossed and turned upon my troubled bed. Drops of anguish would
break upon my brow. On the one hand bliss that seemed infinite;
surrounded by all the false colouring and attraction of forbidden fruit.
On the other the sure service of Heaven--a higher, nobler destiny
without doubt.
"I grew pale and emaciated under my heart-fever. If left to my own
decision I know not how it would have ended: perhaps in yielding. My
gentle Rosalie proved the stronger vessel.
"One morning--shall I ever forget it?--the sun was shining, the skies
were blue, birds and flowers were at their best and brightest, song and
perfume filled the air, I received a letter in the beloved handwriting.
Before opening it I felt that it held our fate and knew its contents.
The soul is never mistaken in such crises.
"'Anselmo, my beloved,' it said, 'my choice is made and I trust you not
to render my difficult task impossible. Last night in a dream my mother
visited me; so real her presence that I feel we have held communion
together. Her face was full of a divine love and pity, and O so sad and
sympathising. Suddenly she pointed and I saw two roads before me. On
each I recognised myself. On the one broad road you walked with me hand
in hand. We were both bowed and broken and foot-sore. We seemed unhappy,
full of care and sorrow. Romance and sunshine? They had fled with the
long past years. Nothing was left but to lay down our burden and die.
"'On the other road I walked alone, but I was strong, upheld by unseen
support. The way was long, yet my footsteps never wearied. I wore the
dress of a Sister of Mercy. At the far, far end, bathed in divine light,
a glorified being yet yourself, you beckoned and seemed to await me.
Beyond you there was a faint vision of Paradise--I knew you had passed
to the higher life. Then my mother turned and spoke. Her voice still
rings in my ears. "My child, in the world you should have tribulation
such as you are not fitted to bear. Your path lies heavenward." Then she
pointed upwards, seemed gradually to fade away, and I awoke. I felt it
an indication accorded me, and rising, on my knees dedicated afresh my
life to Heaven if it would deign to receive me. Beloved, you will help
me; you will lighten my task. Though never united on earth, none the
less do we belong to each other; none the less shall spend eternity
together.'
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: GERONA.]
"Even now," continued the priest, returning to his own narrative, his
voice somewhat agitated: "even now I cannot always think quite calmly of
that morning. I sat amidst the birds and flowers, spell-bound,
heart-broken. The serene skies and laughing sunshine seemed to mock at
my calamity. Earthly dreams were over. Never for a moment did I
question Rosalie's decision or seek to turn it aside. I prayed for
strength, and it was sent me. She became a Sister of Mercy, I a priest.
So our lives are passing, dedicated to Heaven. Not for us the feverish
joys of earth, but quiet streams undisturbed by worldly cares."
"And Rosalie? She still lives?"
[Illustration: CLOISTER OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
"Yes, and in Gerona. Her new name is Sister Anastasia. We meet sometimes
in the silent streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying;
occasionally at the house of a friend. I believe that we are as devoted
to each other as in the days of our youth, but it is love purified and
refined, containing a thousand-fold more of real happiness than our
first passionate ecstasy. If we are to believe her vision, I shall be
the first to enter the dark passage and cross to the light beyond. It
may yet be half a lifetime--who knows? I am only thirty-seven, Rosalie
thirty-five--but whenever the summons comes for her, I feel that I shall
be awaiting her on the divine shores."
We were seated in a room beyond the sacristy where silence and solitude
reigned amidst the evidences of the past centuries on walls and crucifix
and ancient Bibles--a delightful room in which to receive such a
confession. A halo of romance surrounded our priestly guide; his pale,
refined face glowed with a light from which, as he said, all earthly
dross was purified. And yet he was evidently very human; sympathies and
affections were not straitened; his interests in Gerona and its people
were keenly alive. It was the kindliness of his nature had caused him to
take compassion upon us when his more surly fellow-labourer in the
vineyard had turned a deaf ear to our request.
But our golden moments were passing; we could not linger for ever in
old-world sacristies listening to heart-confessions. Treasures were
locked up, keys placed in their hiding-places; we went back into the
church and the closing of the great sacristy door echoed through the
silent aisles. More beautiful and impressive seemed the wonderful
interior each time we entered; a vision of arches and rare columns and
exquisite windows wonderfully solemn and sacred. In darkened corners and
gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high and vaulted roof, we
fancied guardian angels lurked unseen, bringing rest for the
heavy-laden, pardon for the sinner, strength for those who faint by the
way.
"I have often felt it," said our companion, reading our thoughts by some
secret influence; "and have stood here many and many an hour, utterly
alone, lost in meditation. At times mysticism seems to take me captive.
Visions come to me, unsought, not desired; the church is full of a
shining celestial choir; I hear music inaudible to earthly ears; the
rustle of angels' wings surrounds me. These visions or experiences--call
them what you will--have generally occurred after long fastings, when
the spirit probably is less restrained by mortal bonds. But underlying
all my days and action, an intangible incentive for good, I feel the
influence of Rosalie. You see I am still mortal and the earthly must mix
with the heavenly. Nor would I wish it otherwise as long as I have to
minister to mortals, or how could I sympathise with the sin and sorrow
and suffering around me? Even our Lord had to become human, that being
in all things tempted like as we are, He is able to succour them that
are tempted."
[Illustration: APOSTLES' DOORWAY AND BISHOP'S PALACE: GERONA.]
We were walking down the broad nave. Anselmo had thrown on his long
cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall slender figure. His
pale face shone out in the surrounding gloom like a saintly influence.
What strange charm was about this man? In the course of a few moments we
felt we had known him for years. He was singularly lovable and
attractive. Underlying all his gentleness was an undercurrent of
strength; an evident self-reliance, yet the reliance of one who leans on
a higher support than his own. Here was one worthy of enduring
friendship had our lines not been thrown far apart. As it was he too
would disappear out of our life and we should see his face no more. But
his memory would remain.
At the west doorway we turned and looked upon the splendid vision: the
magnificent nave with its slender pillars and lofty roof, the distant
choir with aisles and arches visible and invisible in the dim religious
light that threw upon all its sense of mystery. Above all the wonderful
tone.
"For five and twenty years I have looked upon this scene, and its
influence upon me is as strong as ever," said the priest. "Here I have
found that peace which passeth all understanding. How many a time have I
let myself in with my key, and in these solitary aisles withdrawn from
the world to hold communion with the unseen. Here strength has come to
fight life's battles. Here I have composed many a sermon, here silently
confessed my sins to the Almighty and obtained pardon. Breathe not the
heresy, but confession to man brings me no rest. I have to go to the
great Fountain Head, trusting in the one Atonement and one Mediator.
Nothing else gives me consolation."
We crossed to the doorway of the cloisters. Anselmo, unwilling to leave
us, crossed also. We were too glad of his companionship to wish it
otherwise. He added much to the spell of our surroundings; a central
figure from which all interest radiated. It was passing from the gloom
of the interior to the broad light of day subdued by the grey clouds
that hid the sunshine.
The cloisters reposed in all the charm of antiquity. For eight hundred
years Time had rolled over them with all its subtle influence. There
they stood, an irregular quadrangle, the simple, beautiful round arches
resting on coupled shafts, whose carved capitals were so singularly
elaborate and delicate. Seldom had the attraction of Romanesque
architecture been more evident.
[Illustration: CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I paced these silent
corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. And they
witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my
life--but my triumph also. For here I bade my earthly farewell to
Rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes
and claims upon her and gave her into Heaven's keeping. Here I placed
her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it
will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned
to the dust from which it was taken."
We passed through the little north doorway to the outer world. Far away
the snow-capped Pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. In
the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the
love-songs of the reeds and rushes. Near us was the lovely octagon
tower, shorn of its spire. Without the ancient walls we traced the
remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of
San Pedro and its desecrated companion.
"Let us go down to them," said Anselmo: "examine the wonderful little
cloisters and make the acquaintance of Miguel the carpenter. He seems to
care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane,
once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the
confessional."
It was a rough descent, but a singularly interesting scene. We found
ourselves in narrow streets with ancient houses whose windows were
guarded by splendid ironwork. Last night the watchmen had paced and
cried the hour, awakening the echoes, summoning the silent shadows with
their lanterns. To-day there was no sense of mystery about streets and
houses; daylight loves to disillusion. We had to content ourselves with
quaint gables and old-world outlines. Behind us was one of the ancient
gateways strong and massive, leading directly into the precincts of the
cathedral. Framed through its archway we saw a portion of the vast
flight of steps crowned by the uninteresting west front. It was one of
the very best, most old-world bits of Gerona, and within a small circle
were antiquities and outlines that would have furnished an artist with
work for half his days.
Upon all this we turned our backs as we went towards San Pedro. Here
everything is in opposition to the cathedral; the exterior of this
Benedictine church is its glory. Rounding a corner we are in full view
of the beautiful west Norman doorway with its delicately wrought carving
and fern-leaf capitals. Above the doorway is a very effective cornice
and above that an admirable rose window: altogether a rare example of
the Italian Romanesque. The whole church is very striking, with its fine
octagonal tower and Norman apses built into the old town walls. Just
beyond the tower a gateway leads to the citadel and open country beyond.
A church existed here as early as the tenth century--possibly earlier;
the present church dates from the beginning of the twelfth, when it was
given to the Benedictine Convent of Santa Maria by the Bishop of
Carcassonne.
We passed through the lovely old doorway to the uninteresting interior:
a nave and isles with rude arches and piers plain and square. There was
something cold and pagan about the general effect, exaggerated no doubt
by contrast with the cathedral we had just left. Anselmo was not
insensible to the influence.
"If I were Vicar of San Pedro, half the delight of my days would
vanish," he said. "Instead of living in a refined, almost celestial
atmosphere, existence would be a daily protest against paganism. Let us
pass to the cloisters."
Here indeed the scene changed. Smaller than those of the cathedral, they
were almost as beautiful and effective though more ruined and more
restored.
"Not time but wanton mischief has been at work here," said Anselmo. "The
work of destruction was due to the French in the Peninsular War. Which
of Spain's treasures did they leave untouched?"
Nevertheless a great part of their beauty remained. The passages were
full of collected fragments; old tombs, broken pillars, carved capitals
and ancient crosses: a museum of antiquities: and the Norman arches
resting upon their marble shafts were a wonderful setting to the whole.
Above them, all round the cloisters, a series of small blind Norman
arcades rested upon delicately carved corbels--charming and unusual
detail.
[Illustration: DOORWAY OF SAN PEDRO: GERONA.]
Within a few yards of San Pedro was a still more ancient and interesting
church with a most picturesque interior; yet a church no longer, for it
has been turned into workshops. A low octagonal tower crowns a red-tiled
roof with slightly overhanging eaves. Beneath the eaves repose small
blind arcades, and here and there in the lower hall other arcades are
gradually crumbling away. The wonderful roof is rounded and broken into
sections to suit the plan of the building. Ancient eyelets admit faint
rays of light, and a fine rounded arch points to what was once the
principal doorway.
The interior is domed, vaulted and massive, black with age. Small, it
seems to carry one back to the days when Christians were few and
worshipped in secret. Now fitted as a carpenter's shop, it is full of
the sound of hammer and plane. In one corner, men are melting glue and
heating irons at a huge fireplace. The floor is uneven and below the
level of the road. Light enters with difficulty. An obscure, suggestive
scene worthy of Rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination
of mysterious gloom and human occupation.
The master, a stalwart Spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. He
was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his
reverence and admiration, even affection for Father Anselmo were
evident.
"You honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to
this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "Not every day will
you come upon such a scene. Yet there is a certain fitness in it after
all. Was not Joseph a carpenter? and did not our Saviour work in the
carpenter's shop? So that, as it seems to me, it has become noble above
all other callings. And so, if this church must be turned to secular
use, we have chosen for the best. To me there is no sense of
desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there
is room and to spare in both."
"I fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said Anselmo, with
the mildest of rebukes. "Yet, Miguel, how often have I said there is
good in you--an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life--if only
you would not allow it to run to seed."
"Father," returned Miguel good-humouredly--it was curious to hear an
older man thus address a younger--"all in good time. I conceive that I
am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking
after my children. But somehow I can't go to confession--what have I to
confess, in the name of wonder?--and I never feel a bit the better for
Mass, high or low. So I just make a religion of daily life, and
by-and-by, when I am old, I will try to find benefit in your set forms
and ceremonies."
Anselmo shook his head. We knew how closely he sympathised with at least
one part of Miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. He
only looked a vain remonstrance, which Miguel received with the
good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself.
"Last Sunday," said Anselmo, placing his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I
took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most
hopeless, most full of warning in the whole Bible: _'And the door was
shut.'_ There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. Bear it in mind and
ponder over it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure
of the morrow? Forgive me," turning to us; "I did not come here for
this, but Miguel and I are old friends and understand each other. As
continual dropping will wear away a stone, so I seldom neglect to put in
a word when we meet, though to-day I might for your sake have refrained.
It will tell in the end," nodding to Miguel, "for he has a conscience
and I will not let it rest. And what a building in which to preach a
sermon!" looking upwards and around. "These blackened vaults, those
massive time-defying walls, this earthy, uneven floor--everything
suggests a pagan rather than Christian past. If anything could heighten
the effect it is those weird workers at the fire with faces lighted up
by tongues of flame. All seems a remnant of barbarism. But it is a
wonderful spot, and I come again and again and every time it reads a
fresh lesson to the soul. The whole place seems full of ghostly shadows.
And it is perfect, as you see; transepts, a chancel and apses; nothing
wanting. And so, Miguel, you who so to say dwell in the odour of
sanctity, on ground once consecrated, within walls once devoted to the
service of Heaven, should be influenced by your surroundings and become
a shining light."
"Then I fear it will never be anything but a reflected light," laughed
Miguel, "and that proceeding from your revered and beloved person. I
shall be content if only the shadow of Elijah's mantle touches me in
falling."
We left the wonderful little building so crowded with interest past and
present. Miguel professed to feel honoured by our visit, and placing
himself in attitude outside his door intimated that he should like to be
taken with our instantaneous camera. This was done and the result
promised in due time. We left him standing there--a tall, strong,
magnificent specimen of his race, with hair turning grey and rugged
features full of a certain power.
[Illustration: DESECRATED CHURCH: GERONA.]
"That man has in him the making of a hero," said Anselmo, as we passed
through the gateway in the old wall. "In a different station of life he
would have been a master of the world. But I always feel that the lives
and destinies of such men, missed here, will be carried on to perfection
in another state of existence. Great powers were never meant to be lost.
Here he is the acorn, there he will become the full-grown tree bearing
fruit."
We were climbing towards the ruined citadel and at last found ourselves
within the once formidable fortress. Much remained to show the strength
of what had been, but its immense area was now given up to silence and
weeds.
"It is full of a sad atmosphere and melancholy recollections," said
Anselmo. "One goes back in spirit to the terrible days of the past.
First that War of Succession, when Gerona with two thousand men manfully
but hopelessly resisted Philip V. with an army five times as great.
Again in 1808, with three hundred men, chiefly English, she repulsed
Duhesme with his six thousand warriors. In 1809 the French besieged her
with thirty-five thousand men. Alvarez, who was then Governor--you will
have observed his house in the cathedral square--was terribly
handicapped. He had little food and scarcely any ammunition, but was one
of the bravest and wisest men of Spain. The siege was long and fierce,
the suffering great. We were much helped by the English, but your
gallant Colonel Marshall was killed in the breaches. It is said that
Alvarez wept at his death, declaring he had lost his right hand. In such
straits was the town that even the women enrolled themselves into a
company dedicated to Santa Barbara. The enemy failed to take the city;
never was resistance more manful and determined. Many of the besieging
generals gave up in angry impatience and went off.
"But at last two new enemies arose--famine and disease--inseparable
spectres. Before these Gerona could not stand. Everything depended on
Alvarez, and he fell a prey to fever. A successor was appointed whose
first and last act was to capitulate. The siege had lasted nearly eight
months, and the French lost fifteen thousand men. So," looking around,
"we are on classic ground, sacred to courage, consecrated by human
suffering, watered with streams of human blood. Gerona has never
recovered. She has steadily declined and still declines.
[Illustration: OUTSIDE THE WALLS: GERONA.]
Nevertheless, she is and ever will be Gerona the brave and beautiful."
Anselmo had not exaggerated. Gerona was indeed a revelation. It is not a
Segovia, for there is only one Segovia in the world; but, little known
or visited, it is yet one of Spain's most picturesque and interesting
towns. Nature and art have combined to make it so--the art of the Middle
Ages, not of to-day. A modern element exists, but the new and the old,
the hideous and the beautiful are so well divided by the river, that you
may wander through the ancient streets undisturbed by the nineteenth
century and fancy yourself in dreamland.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF SAN PEDRO.]
We had mounted to the highest point of the ruins and seated ourselves on
the embankment. Fragments of the old citadel lay about in all
directions; crumbling walls, desolated chambers, dark entrances leading
to underground vaults. Over all grew tall sad weeds, so suggestive of
vanished hands and departed glory. It was a romantic scene, and as we
sat and pondered, citadel and plains seemed suddenly filled with a vast
army; the ground trembled with the tramp of horsemen, march of troops.
In imagination we saw the dead and dying, the bold resistance to human
foes, the falling away before a foe that was not human. The air was full
of the shout of warriors, flash of swords, roar of cannon. Then the
vision passed away, leaving nothing but the empty deserted scene before
us. The grass on which we sat was covered with flowers, and wild thyme
scented the air with its pungent fragrance. A little below, stretching
far round, were the old town walls, grey and massive.
The ground in front broke into a ravine, disclosing fresh outlines of
towers, walls and ancient houses. San Pedro was conspicuous, and just
beyond it the short octagon of the desecrated church. In its rich
sheltered slope grew a luxuriant garden, with hanging shrubs and weeping
trees and many fruits of the earth. To-day, it was a scene of peace and
plenty; wars and rumours of wars might never have been or be again.
Above all, within the ancient walls rose the outlines of the cathedral
overlooking the whole town and vast surrounding country as though in
perpetual benediction. Beside us sat Father Anselmo, his pale refined
face and clear-cut features full of the beauty of holiness.
Suddenly the great cathedral bell struck out the twelve strokes of
mid-day, and we listened in silence as the last faint vibrations seemed
to die away amidst the distant Pyrenees.
"It is my summons," said the priest. "I would fain linger with you, but
duty calls me elsewhere. I cannot say farewell. Let us again meet
to-morrow."
We promised; then looking steadily at him saw a wave of emotion pass
over his expressive face. Following his intent gaze, our eyes rested
upon a slight, graceful figure in the dress of a _Religieuse_, flitting
silently through the small square beside the desecrated church. Miguel,
who stood at his door, bowed as to a saint.
"Sister Anastasia," said Anselmo, his eyes having already betrayed the
fact. "She is bound on some errand of mercy. May Heaven have her in its
holy keeping!"