Under the shelter of the projecting eaves, whence broken water-spouts
were belching streams as thick as a man's arm, loungers in the cafés
would slip along the streets toward the river-front; and after glancing
at the flood from the scant protection of their umbrellas, would make
their way proudly back, stopping in every drinking place to offer their
opinions on the rise that had taken place since their previous
inspection.

The city from end to end was one seething storm of heated, typically
"Southern" argument and prophecy. Friendships were being made and
broken, over questions as to whether the river had risen four inches the
past hour, or only one, and as to whether this freshet were more
important than the one five years before.

Meantime the sky kept on weeping through its countless eyes; the river,
roaring more wrathful every moment, was now licking at the ends of the
low-lying streets near the bank, creeping up into the gardens on the
shore, stealing in between the orange-trees, opening holes in the hedges
and the mudwalls.

The main concern of the populace was whether it were raining also in the
mountains of Cuenca. If much water came down from there, the flood would
become serious. And experienced eyes studied the color of the waters
carefully. If there was any black in them, it meant they came from the
upper provinces.

The cloud-burst lasted for two whole days. The night of the second day
closed, and the roar of the river sounded forebodingly in the darkness.
On its black surface lights could be seen reflected like restless
flashes of flame--candles from the shore houses and lanterns of watchmen