thes-lines for the wash of the water-front, which was waving like a
regalia of banners in the fresh sea-breeze.

Cabins alternated with tenements of several stories. Those incorrigible
tars could not forget the water-line even when they were ashore, for all
the buildings were finished off with spar-varnish, and painted in two
colors, like boats. Many a front door had a figure-head carved in wood,
as though that portal were the bow-sprit of the sailor's habitation,
which, in all its details of architecture, of color and line, called up
memories of life at sea. The village looked like a collection of
grounded craft. In front of some of the cabins stout masts with pulleys
had been set up, and the pulley and mast meant that there lived a
skipper of a pair of _bou_-boats. At the top of the staffs, the most
complicated tackle was out drying, waving in the wind like the majestic
emblem of a consul. The Rector eyed those poles in envy unconcealed.
When would that Christ up at the Grao answer his prayer so that he could
plant a mast like that in front of his door in honor of Dolores?

Now the drain had come to an end. They were well into the village, in
the section where people from Valencia had their summer cottages. The
houses here were low studded, with bulging gratings, painted green, over
the windows. Everything was closed and silent. Footsteps echoed back
across the broad sidewalks as in an abandoned town. Tufted plane trees
were languishing in the solitude, pining for the gay nights of summer
when there was laughing everywhere, people running about, and a piano
banging in every cottage. Now scarcely any one was in sight. An
occasional villager went by, in his pointed cap, with his hands in his
pockets, and his pipe in his mouth, sauntering lazily toward this tavern
or that; for the cafes were the only places where anything was going on.

The _Carabina_, for instance, was crowded. Under the awning in front
were any number of blue coats, black silk caps, and weather-beaten
countenances. Dominoes were rattling on the tables, and though
everything was open to the air, the strong smell of gin and tobacco
struck you in the face.

Tonet had pleasant memories of the place--the scene of his triumphs in
generosity in the first months of his marriage to Rosario.

At one of the stands sat _tio_ Mariano, pulling at his pipe and waiting,
probably, for the sheriff, or some other town notable, to enjoy the
usual afternoon chat. He wa