bridge, with the river flowing beneath, the houses rising in a
great impenetrable mass, and the distant chestnut-roasters at their
demon work.

The evening was growing old; a neighbouring church clock struck ten.
This served to change the current of one's thoughts, which had simply
drifted with the scene before us.

"Let us go to the cathedral," said H. C. "We shall then have two
impressions instead of one. I always like to see an important building
first at night. Next morning's view is so different that it becomes a
revelation."

This was true enough; but how find our way to the cathedral and back
again to the hotel? We had no desire to repeat that Toledo adventure.
The story of the Babes in the Wood is only amusing to those who listen.

"Evidently a very different town from Toledo," replied H. C. "We have
only to climb the height to reach the cathedral. Let us play Hare and
Hounds. I will drop pieces of paper by way of scent. Or like Hop o' my
Thumb scatter stones on the road."

"Wouldn't a silken thread be more poetical?"

"True; but," with a profound sigh, "there is no Fair Rosamund at the end
of it. Here we can only worship the antique. Rosamund was not antique."

"But this has one great virtue; it can never disappoint or play you
false. And, rare merit, its charms increase with age."

Again he sighed deeply. He had had many disappointments, but then he
deserved them. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, until by-and-by
they alight on a nettle and it stings: a little allegory always lost
upon H. C. The gift of knowing themselves is still denied to mortals.

We left the bridge and found ourselves once more in the quaint octagonal
corner; in front of us a narrow turning; a long flight of steps
apparently without end; a Jacob's Ladder.

"Leading to Paradise," said H. C. "Let us take it."

"Would you be admitted with all those broken vows upon your conscience?"

The Oracle was silent. With a bold plunge we commenced the ascent: a
rugged climb with dead walls about us; twistings and turnings and
crooked ways and rough uneven steps; a veritable pilgrimage.

"Patience," said H. C. "Everything comes to him who climbs. I like to
vary our proverbs; the old forms grow hackneyed."

As he spoke, we came upon a hidden turning to the left; short, straight,
and evidently full of purpose. We took it without doubting and soon
found ourselves in the open square, bound on one side by the cathedral
with the Bishop'