the tower on the following morning, standing under the Giralda.

On that morning we met together in the patio, soon after five o’clock, and started for the cathedral.  She looked beautiful, with her black mantilla over her head, and with black gloves on, and her black morning silk dress—beautiful, composed, and at her ease, as though she were well satisfied to undertake this early morning walk from feelings of good nature—sustained, probably, by some under-current of a deeper sentiment.  Well; I would know all about it before I returned to her father’s house.

There hardly stands, as I think, on the earth, a building more remarkable than the cathedral of Seville, and hardly one more grand.  Its enormous size; its gloom and darkness; the richness of ornamentation in the details, contrasted with the severe simplicity of the larger outlines; the variety of its architecture; the glory of its paintings; and the wondrous splendour of its metallic decoration, its altar-friezes, screens, rails, gates, and the like, render it, to my mind, the first in interest among churches.  It has not the coloured glass of Chartres, or the marble glory of Milan, or such a forest of aisles as Antwerp, or so perfect a hue in stone as Westminster, nor in mixed beauty of form and colour does it possess 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 be 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 the top,” said I, bethinking myself of the task that was before me.  And indeed my heart was hardly at ease within me, for that which I had to say would require all the spirit of which I was master.

The ascent to the Giralda is very long and very fatiguing; and we had to pause on the various landings and in the singular belfry in order that Miss Daguilar might recruit her strength and breath.  As we rested on one of these occasions, in a gallery which runs round the tower below the belfry, we heard a great noise of shouting, and a clattering of sticks among the bells.  “It is the party of your countrymen who went up before us,” said she.  “What a pity that Englishmen should always make so much noise!”  And then she spoke in Spanish to the custodian of the bells, who is usually to be found in a little cabin up there within the tower.  “He says that they went up shouting like demons,” continued Maria; and it seemed to me that she looked as though I ought to be ashamed of the name of an Englishman.  “They may not be so solemn in their demeanour as Spaniards,” I answered; “but, for all that, there may be quite as much in them.”

We then again began to mount, and before we had ascended much farther we passed my three countrymen.  They were young men, with gray coats and gray trousers, with slouched hats, and without gloves.  They had fair faces and fair hair, and swung big sticks in their hands, with crooked handles.  They laughed and talked loud, and, when we met them, seemed to be racing with each other; but nevertheless they were gentlemen.  No one who knows by sight what an English gentleman is, could have doubted that; but I did acknowledge to myself that they should have remembered that the edifice they were treading was a church, and that the silence they were invading was the cherished property of a courteous people.

“They are all just the same as big boys,” said Maria.  The colour instantly flew into my face, and I felt that it was my duty to speak up for my own countrymen.  The word “boys” especially wounded my ears.  It was as a boy that she treated me; but, on looking at that befringed young Spanish Don—who was not, apparently, my elder in age—she had recognised a man.  However, I said nothing further till I reached the summit.  One cannot speak with manly dignity while one is out of breath on a staircase.

“There, John,” she said, stretching her hands away over the fair plain of the Guadalquivir, as soon as we stood against the parapet; “is not that lovely?”

I would not deign to notice this.  “Maria,” I said, “I think that you are too hard upon my countrymen?”

“Too hard! no; for I love them.  They are so good and industrious; and come home to their wives, and take care of their children.  But why do they make themselves so—so—what the French call gauche?”

“Good and industrious, and come home to their wives!” thought I.  “I believe you hardly understand us as yet,” I answered.  “Our domestic virtues are not always so very prominent; but, I believe, we know how to conduct ourselves as gentlemen: at any rate, as well as Spaniards.”  I was very angry—not at the faults, but at the good qualities imputed to us.

“In affairs of business, yes,” said Maria, with a look of firm confidence in her own opinion—that look of confidence which she has never lost, and I pray that she may never lose it while I remain with her—“but in the little intercourses of the world, no!  A Spaniard never forgets what is personally due either to himself or his neighbours.  If he is eating an onion, he eats it as an onion should be eaten.”

“In such matters as that he is very grand, no doubt,” said I, angrily.

“And why should you not eat an onion properly, John?  Now, I heard a story yesterday from Don—about two Englishmen, which annoyed me very much.”  I did not exactly catch the name of the Don in question but I felt through every nerve in my body that it was the man who had been talking to her on the plaza.

“And what have they done?” said I.  “But it is the same everywhere.  We are always abused; but, nevertheless, no people are so welcome.  At any rate, we pay for the mischief we do.”  I was angry with myself the moment the words were out of my mouth, for, after all, there is no feeling more mean than that pocket-confidence with which an Englishman sometimes swaggers.

“There was no mischief done in this case,” she answered.  “It was simply that two men have made themselves ridiculous for ever.  The story is all about Seville, and, of course, it annoys me that they should be Englishmen.”

“And what did they do?”

“The Marquis D’Almavivas was coming up to Seville in the boat, and they behaved to him in the most outrageous manner.  He is here now and is going to give a series of fêtes.  Of course he will not ask a single