Occasionally  in  recalling  these  events,  even  now  in  relat-
ing them  here,  I  have  asked  myself  : —

Some  day  in  the  mysterious  hour  of  twilight,  when  the
breath  of  the  spring  zephyr,  warm  and  laden  with  perfumes,
penetrates  even  into  the  recesses  of  the  most  retired  dwell-
ings, bearing  there  an  airy  touch  of  memory,  of  the  world,
must  not  a  woman,  alone,  lost  in  the  dim  shades  of  a  Gothic
cloister,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  her  elbow  resting  on  the
embrasure  of  an  ogive  window,  have  exhaled  a  sigh  as
the  recollection  of  these  dates  crossed  her  imagination  ?

Who  knows  ?

Oh  1  if  she  sighed,  where  might  that  sigh  be  ?


THE  CHRIST  OF  THE  SKULL

The  King  of  Castile  was  going  to  the  Moorish  war  and,  in
order  to  contend  with  the  enemies  of  the  faith,  he  had  sent  a
martial  summons  to  all  the  flower  of  his  nobility.  The  silent
streets  of  Toledo  now  resounded  night  and  day  with  the
stirring  sound  of  kettle-drums  and  trumpets  ;  and  in  the
Moorish  gateway  of  Visagra,  or  in  that  of  Cambron,  or  in
the  narrow  entrance  to  the  ancient  bridge  of  St.  Martin,  not
an  hour  passed  without  one's  hearing  the  hoarse  cry  of  the
sentinels  proclaiming  the  arrival  of  some  knight  who,  pre-
ceded by  his  seigniorial  banner  and  followed  by  horsemen
and  foot-soldiers,  had  come  to  join  the  main  body  of  the
Castilian  army.
The  time  which  remained  before  taking  the  road  to  the
frontier  and  completing  the  order  of  the  royal  hosts  was  spent
in  public  entertainments,  lavish  feasts  and  brilliant  tourna-
ments, iintil  at  last,  on  the  evening  before  the  day  appointed
by  His  Highness  for  the  setting  out  of  the  army,  a  grand
ball  closed  the  festivities.
