Gigantic cacti look into the windows from
the outer court. A gay pomegranate-tree flings its scarlet blossoms in
on the ruined floor. Rude little birds have built their nests in the
beautiful fretted rafters, and flutter in and out as busy as brokers.
But of all the feasting and loving and plotting these lovely walls
beheld in that strange age that seems like fable now,--the vivid,
intelligent, scientific, tolerant age of the Moors,--even the memory has
perished utterly and forever.
We strolled away aimlessly from this beautiful desolation, and soon came
out upon the bright and airy Paseo del Transito. The afternoon sunshine
lay warm on the dull brown suburb, but a breeze blew freshly through the
dark river-gorge, and we sat upon the stone benches bordering the bluff
and gave ourselves up to the scene. To the right were the ruins of the
Roman bridge and the Moorish mills; to the left the airy arch of San
Martin's bridge spanned the bounding torrent, and far beyond stretched
the vast expanse of the green valley refreshed by the river, and rolling
in rank waves of verdure to the blue hills of Guadalupe. Below us on the
slippery rocks that lay at the foot of the sheer cliffs, some luxurious
fishermen reclined, idly watching their idle lines. The hills stretched
away, ragged and rocky, dotted with solitary towers and villas.
A squad of beggars rapidly gathered, attracted by the gracious faces of
Las Senoras.
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