It seemed that Don Francisco de Mogente had purposely avoided crossing
the bridge, where to this day the night watchman, with lantern and spear,
peeps cautiously to and fro--a startlingly mediaeval figure. It seemed
also that the traveler was expected, though he had performed the last
stage of his journey on foot after nightfall.

It is characteristic of this country that Saragossa should be guarded
during the day by the toll-takers at every gate, by sentries, and by the
new police, while at night the streets are given over to the care of a
handful of night watchmen, who call monotonously to each other all
through the hours, and may be avoided by the simplest-minded of
malefactors.

Don Francisco de Mogente brought the ferry-boat gently alongside the
landing-stage beneath the high wall of the Quay, and made his way through
the underground passage and up the dirty steps that lead into one of the
narrow streets of the old town.

The moon had broken through the clouds again and shone down upon the
barred windows. The traveler stood still and looked about him. Nothing
had changed since he had last stood there. Nothing had changed just here
for five hundred years or so; for he could not see the domes of the
Cathedral of the Pillar, comparatively modern, only a century old.

Don Francisco de Mogente had come from the West; had known the newness of
the new generation. And he stood for a moment as if in a dream, breathing
in the tainted air of narrow, undrained streets; listening to the cry of
the watchman slowly dying as the man walked away from him on sandaled,
noiseless feet; gazing up at the barred windows, heavily shadowed. There