The Ebro, as all the world knows--or will pretend to know, being an
ignorant and vain world--runs through the city of Saragossa. It is a
river, moreover, which should be accorded the sympathy of this
generation, for it is at once rapid and shallow.

On one side it is bordered by the wall of the city. The left bank is low
and sandy, liable to flood; a haunt of lizards in the summer, of frogs in
winter-time. The lower bank is bordered by poplar trees, and here and
there plots of land have been recovered from the riverbed for tillage and
the growth of that harsh red wine which seems to harden and thicken the
men of Aragon.

One night, when a half moon hung over the domes of the Cathedral of the
Pillar, a man made his way through the undergrowth by the riverside and
stumbled across the shingle towards the open shed which marks the
landing-place of the only ferry across the Ebro that Saragossa possesses.
The ferry-boat was moored to the landing-stage. It is a high-prowed,
high-sterned vessel, built on Viking lines, from a picture the observant
must conclude, by a landsman carpenter. It swings across the river on a
wire rope, with a running tackle, by the force of the stream and the aid
of a large rudder.

The man looked cautiously into the vine-clad shed. It was empty. He crept
towards the boat and found no one there. Then he examined the chain that
moored it. There was no padlock. In Spain to this day they bar the window
heavily and leave the door open. To the cunning mind is given in this
custom the whole history of a great nation.

He stood upright and looked across the river. He was a tall man with a
clean cut face and a hard mouth. He gave a sharp sigh as he looked at