-lying lamp streaming over its surface. And
presently, this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for
all other shortcomings.

Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the
baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.

We felt we ought to know Perpignan, and with affection, for it was once
the residence of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years
ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters.
For centuries it belonged to Spain, and still looks more Spanish than
French. Only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally
annexed to France by Richelieu. In summer its narrow streets are covered
with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have
the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to Spain. Some of its
thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you
come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles,
gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. It is
strongly fortified, and some of the old gateways are interesting. In
days gone by these fortifications were needed, for Perpignan was the
great point of defence in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France.
The Cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. In
this it resembles Majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. Though
larger, Perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than Narbonne. We
soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. At
the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef
in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying
his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the
conclusion. For that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned
his ease.

There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and
cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it
in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines
rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal
encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in
memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by
order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the
Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth,
fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructiv