anything equal to the choir of Cologne; but, for combined
magnificence and awe-compelling grandeur, I regard it as superior to
all other ecclesiastical edifices.

It is its deep gloom with which the stranger is so greatly struck on
his first entrance. In a region so hot as the south of Spain, a cool
interior is a main object with the architect, and this it has been
necessary to effect by the exclusion of light; consequently the
church is dark, mysterious, and almost cold. On the morning in
question, as we entered, it seemed to be filled with gloom, and the
distant sound of a slow footstep here and there beyond the transept
inspired one almost with awe. Maria, when she first met me, had
begun to talk with her usual smile, offering me coffee and a biscuit
before I started. "I never eat biscuit," I said, with almost a
severe tone, as I turned from her. That dark, horrid man of the
plaza--would she have offered him a cake had she been going to walk
with him in the gloom of the morning? After that little had been
spoken between us. She walked by my side with her accustomed smile;
but she had, as I flattered myself, begun to learn that I was not to
he won by a meaningless good nature. "We are lucky in our morning
for the view!" that was all she said, speaking with that peculiarly
clear, but slow pronunciation which she had assumed in learning our
language.

We entered the cathedral, and, walking the whole length of the aisle,
left it again at the porter's porch at the farther end. Here we
passed through a low door on to the stone flight of steps, and at
once began to ascend. "There are a party of your countrymen up
before us," said Maria; "the porter says that they went through the
lodge half an hour since." "I hope they will return before we are on