Leonard Williams, greatest of authorities on Spain) was allowed to walk
beside Pilar, while that most unsuspecting and kindly of chaperons, the
Cherub, bestowed his society on me. But, according to his habit, he was
often silent, giving me time to dream of Toledo's past.

Picturesque enough were the figures of to-day in the old grey capital of
the Visigoths, yet they were not as real for me as other figures which
only my mind's eye could see.

Here was the long, flat facade of the building legend had chosen as the
palace of Wamba the Benefactor--the Farmer King. I saw the old man waking
to life in the dungeon where the treachery of one loved and trusted had
thrown him, dressed in the monkish garb which never again could be changed
for robes of state. I saw a haggard company of Jews marching into
"Tarshish," scarred and bleeding from the persecutions of Nebuchadnezzar
who had flung them from Jerusalem. I saw Moorish men fighting to take
Toledo--the "Lookout," "the Light of the World," and fighting again to save
it for themselves.

There, in the towering Alcazar, had Rodrigo betrayed his beautiful queen,
Egilona, for the still more beautiful Florinda, daughter of Julian,
Espatorios of Spain; at least, so legend said, mingling the romantic music
of its ballads inextricably with the deep organ notes of history. Below,
on the cliff above the Tagus, in the Tower of Hercules, had Rodrigo taken
the painted linen cloths from the enchanted casket, and seen the awful
vision of the Moorish horde with his own figure fleeing before them, one
day when he forgot the prophecy which warned all kings of Spain against
entering that mysterious, locked door.

Up this narrow street in the town, behind that barred window with its
curious cannon-ball decorations, perhaps the incomparable Dona Flor of
Dumas' "Bandit" had smiled and pierced the heart of the "Courier of Love"
with her beauty.

It was like awaking from a brilliant dream when the Cherub stopped
abruptly, to point up at the vast, incongruous bulk of the cathedral
towering over us. But there was nothing incongruous in the rich, Gothic
splendour within; and my sole shock of disappointment came when I gave up
hope of finding Monica.

They had punished her by changing their plan of campaign, and I must seek
her elsewhere. But I could not wrench my friends from this great monument
of Spanish glory, merely because I cared more to look on Monica Vale's
face than the face of any sain