re
nearly always performed at or near popular health resorts.

Was another in grief, Evasio Mon would send him on a long journey to a
gay city, where the devout are not without worldly diversion in the
evenings.

Neither was it upon hearsay only that he prescribed. He had been to all
these places, and tested them perhaps, which would account for his serene
demeanour and that even health which he seemed to enjoy. He had traveled
without perturbment, it would seem, for his journeys had left no wrinkles
on his bland forehead, neither was the light of restlessness in his quiet
eyes.

He must have seen many cities, but cities are nearly all alike, and they
grow more alike every day. Many men also must he have met, but they
seemed to have rubbed against him and left him unmarked--as sandstone may
rub against a diamond. It is upon the sandstone that the scratch remains.
He was not part of all that he had seen, which may have meant that he
looked not at men or cities, but right through them, to something beyond,
upon which his gaze was always fixed.

Living as he did, in a city possessing so great a shrine as that of the
"Virgen del Pilar," the scene of a vision accorded to St. James when
traveling through Spain, Mon naturally interested himself in the
pilgrims, who came from all parts of the world to worship in the
cathedral, who may be seen at any hour kneeling in the dim light of
flickering candles before the altar rails.

Mon's apartment, indeed, in the tall house next door to the Posada de los
Reyes on the Paseo del Ebro was a known resort of the more cultured of
the pilgrims, of these who came from afar; from Rome and from the
farthest limits of the Roman Church--from Warsaw to Minnesota.

Evasio Mon had friends also among the humble and such as sheltered in the
Posada de los Reyes, which itself was a typical Spanish hostelry, and one
of those houses of the road in which the traveler is lucky if he finds
the bedrooms all occupied; for then he may, without giving offense, sleep
more comfortably in the hayloft. Here, night and day, the clink of bells
and the gruff admonition of refractory mules told of travel, and the
constant come and go of strange, wild-looking men from the remoter
corners of Aragon, far up by the foothills of the Pyrenees. The huge
two-wheeled carts drawn by six, eight or ten mules, came lumbering
through the dust at all hours of the twenty-four, bringing the produce of
the greener lands to this o