ore the others would come, though in order to reach Valladolid at a
decent hour, they must not delay too long. But sooner or later they would
certainly arrive, for Carmona could not, for shame's sake, rush Monica out
of Burgos without showing her the glory of Burgos. And meanwhile, for none
save a paltry soul could Time have halted, heavy-footed, as a companion in
that realm of shadowed splendour.

It was the first of the famous cathedrals of Spain on which I, an outcast
son, had set my eyes; and a glimpse of the twin-spires from afar had given
me some inkling of its beauty. Wrapped in sunset flames, I had seen the
towers as if cut in precious stones, chiselled, according to legend by
angels, like a queen's bracelet, adorned like an old reliquary. I had said
to myself that the vast building was a wild festival in a stone, a bravura
song in architecture. And if I remembered, as I looked, other twin towers
which are the glory of the Rhine, I tried to put the reminiscence away,
because I wanted the cathedrals of Spain to be different from those of any
other country. I wanted them to speak to me with their own national
inspiration. And this morning, as I flitted with the other shadows into
the solemn dusk of the great nave, I was satisfied. I found no German
inspiration here. Each detail struck the same curiously national note,
from the rare iron-work to the octagonal lantern, a miracle of Plateresque
design, which lifted itself, clear and bright, above the centre of the
great church. Perhaps the effect lay partly in the gorgeous colour, colour
never tawdry, never vulgar, as I had seen it sometimes in Italy; or else
in the wonderful reliefs; statues in niches of gold, flowering stones,
arabesques, alabaster columns, richly-toned pictures; but no matter whence
it came, it was there, and could have been nowhere except in Spain.

I wandered from chapel to chapel, saw the strange mummy-like figure of the
Christ of Burgos, supposed to shed blood every Friday; admired the
treasures of the sacristy; and, I am half-ashamed to say, had just
dedicated a candle to propitiate San Cristobal, when my heart gave a leap
at sight of four persons who appeared from behind the grand coro which
fills the nave.

The old Duchess of Carmona, brown, stout, yet somehow stately, and the
tall figure of Lady Vale-Avon advanced towards me, side by side. Behind
came Monica, fresh and sweet in her white-winged grey hat and travelling
dress, and the Duke