Saragossa outlined against the sky. His attitude and his sigh seemed to
denote along journey accomplished at last, an object attained perhaps or
within reach, which is almost the same thing, but not quite. For most men
are happier in striving than in possession. And no one has yet decided
whether it is better to be among the lean or the fat.

Don Francisco de Mogente sat down on the bench provided for those that
await the ferry, and, tilting back his hat, looked up at the sky. The
northwest wind was blowing--the Solano--as it only blows in Aragon. The
bridge below the ferry has, by the way, a high wall on the upper side of
it to break this wind, without which no cart could cross the river at
certain times of the year. It came roaring down the Ebro, bending the
tall poplars on the lower bank, driving before it a cloud of dust on the
Saragossa side. It lashed the waters of the river to a gleaming white
beneath the moon. And all the while the clouds stood hard and sharp of
outline in the sky. They hardly seemed to move towards the moon. They
scarcely changed their shape from hour to hour. This was not a wind of
heaven, but a current rushing down from the Pyrenees to replace the hot
air rising from the plains of Aragon.

Nevertheless, the clouds were moving towards the moon, and must soon hide
it. Don Francisco de Mogente observed this, and sat patiently beneath the
trailing vines, noting their slow approach. He was a white-haired man,
and his face was burnt a deep brown. It was an odd face, and the
expression of the eyes was not the usual expression of an old man's eyes.
They had the agricultural calm, which is rarely seen in drawing-rooms.
For those who deal with nature rarely feel calm in a drawing-room. They
want to get out of it, and their eyes assume a hunted look. This seemed
to be a man who had known both drawing-room and nature; who must have
turned quietly and deliberately to nature as the better part. The