, in fact, seek their night's lodging just
where the King had indicated. Impossible as the feat appeared, they
instantly rushed to the attack of the formidable fortress with such
irresistible dash that they succeeded in scaling the walls and entering
it, pikes in rest. The King, who had run forward as soon as he heard of
the attack, watched with delight his loyal Madrilenos climbing up the
face of the masonry with extraordinary skill, and not a little loss.

"Look, look!" he cried to those near him. "See how they climb! They are
cats!"

The other forces at once came to their assistance, the fortress fell
into the King's hands before nightfall, and those who had been in "no
hurry" to join the army found their lodgings within it, as his Majesty
had contemptuously recommended them to do. His anger was forgotten in
admiration and praise; and, from that time, all those born in Madrid
have the right to call themselves _gatos_.

It is curious how the observation of those who know Spain intimately
differs--one must suppose according to temperament. Thus Antonio
Gallenga, the well-known correspondent of the _Times_, who really knew
Spain well, has left it on record that the people are not musical, and
that he never remembers to have heard any of them singing in the
streets, or at their work. I do not know how this could have happened,
unless our old friend did not recognise the singing he did hear as
music, for which he might, perhaps, be forgiven. My own experience is
that the people are always singing, more or less, if you agree to call
it so. As the houses are almost all built in flats, many of the windows
open into _patios_, or court-yards, large or small, as the case may be.
You may reckon on always having two or three servants, male or female,
at work in the _patio_, the women washing or scrubbing, the men probably
cleaning their horses, carriages, or harness; but whatever else they may
be doing, you may be quite certain they will all be singing, though it
is equally certain that, by the greatest exercise of amiability, you
could scarcely call the result a song; the words seem to be improvised
as the performer goes on. There was a light-hearted groom in one of the
_patios_ of our flat, in the Calle Lope de Vega, who would continue
almost without a break the whole day. An old friend who used to amuse
himself by listening to this remarkable performer declared that if he
started his song in the early morning with a stick th