was an old world stillness in the air, and suddenly the bells of fifty
churches tolled the hour. It was one o'clock in the morning. The traveler
had traveled backwards, it would seem, into the middle ages. As he heard
the church bells he gave an angry upward jerk of the head, as if the
sound confirmed a thought that was already in his mind. The bells seemed
to be all around him; the towers of the churches seemed to dominate the
sleeping city on every side. There was a distinct smell of incense in the
air of these narrow streets, where the winds of the outer world rarely
found access.

The traveler knew his way, and hurried down a narrow turning to the left,
with the Cathedral of the Pillar between him and the river. He had made a
dé tour in order to avoid the bridge and the Paseo del Ebro, a broad
road on the river bank. In these narrow streets he met no one. On the
Paseo there are several old inns, notably the Posada de los Reyes, used
by muleteers and other gentlemen of the road, who arise and start at any
hour of the twenty-four and in summer travel as much by night as by day.
At the corner, where the bridge abuts on the Paseo, there is always a
watchman at night, while by day there is a guard. It is the busiest and
dustiest corner in the city.

Francisco de Mogente crossed a wide street, and again sought a dark
alley. He passed by the corner of the Cathedral of the Pillar, and went
towards the other and infinitely grander Cathedral of the Seo. Beyond
this, by the riverside, is the palace of the archbishop. Farther on is
another palace, standing likewise on the Paseo del Ebro, backing likewise
on to a labyrinth of narrow streets. It is called the Palacio Sarrion,
and belongs to the father and son of that name.

It seemed that Francisco de Mogente was going to the Palacio Sarrion; for