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 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 de 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 he passed the great door of the archbishop’s dwelling, and was already looking towards the house of the Sarrions, when a slight sound made him turn on his heels with the rapidity of one whose life had been passed amid dangers—­and more especially those that come from behind.