e in
their changes.

And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where
eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines
stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched
the sapphire waters of the Levant.

The train hurried on, and at Cerbere we bade farewell to pleasant
France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we
have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass
from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbere nothing
but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in
French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head,
and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain--land of slow
trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and
beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as
the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our
luggage was destined to be the _bete noire_ of our wanderings.

[Illustration: PEDRO.]

"You wish to go to Gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket
only states Barcelona. If you break your journey at Gerona, your luggage
must go on to the farther town."

Again we protested--and again conquered. "For once I yield and make you
an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at Gerona." All
this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered.

At eight o'clock we reached Gerona, and even in the darkness could see
its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that
rolled below. The station was in an uproar. Crowds of people, young men
and old, surged to and fro. Deafening shouts arose. What was the matter,
and what could it mean? We gave a shrewd guess. Conscripts were going
off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the
conscripts joined uproariously. On the platform we almost fell against
two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. Each
had evidently come to see a son off. One was especially a typical
Catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and
picturesque costume. His friend called him Pedro. They had probably
grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the
world were being handed on to the boys--who no doubt troubled themselves
very little about the matter.

We made way into the luggage-room. "Ah!" cried the porter, looking at
our t