The next time that he saw the old man at the library, he commenced his approaches by requesting permission to look into one of the volumes with which the unknown appeared to have done.  The latter merely bowed his head, in token of assent.  After pretending to look through the volume with great attention, he returned it with many acknowledgments.

The stranger made no reply.

“May I ask, senor,” said Antonio, with some hesitation, “may I ask what you are searching after in all these books?”

The old man raised his head, with an expression of surprise, at having his studies interrupted for the first time, and by so intrusive a question.  He surveyed the student with a side glance from head to foot:  “Wisdom, my son,” said he, calmly; “and the search requires every moment of my attention.”  He then cast his eyes upon his book, and resumed his studies.

“But, father,” said Antonio, “cannot you spare a moment to point out the road to others?  It is to experienced travellers like you, that we strangers in the paths of knowledge must look for directions on our journey.”

The stranger looked disturbed:  “I have not time enough, my son, to learn,” said he, “much less to teach.  I am ignorant myself of the path of true knowledge; how then can I show it to others?”

“Well, but, father—­”

“Senor,” said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, “you must see that I have but few steps more to the grave.  In that short space have I to accomplish the whole business of my existence.  I have no time for words; every word is as one grain of sand of my glass wasted.  Suffer me to be alone.”

There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of intimacy.  The student found himself calmly but totally repulsed.  Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was naturally modest, and on after-thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion.  His mind soon became occupied by other objects.  He passed several days wandering among the mouldering piles of Moorish architecture, those melancholy monuments of an elegant and voluptuous people.  He paced the deserted halls of the Alhambra, the paradise of the Moorish kings.  He visited the great court of the lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the gallant Abencerrages.  He gazed with admiration at its mosaic cupolas, gorgeously painted in gold and azure; its basins of marble, its alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with inscriptions.

His imagination kindled as he wandered among these scenes.  They were calculated to awaken all the enthusiasm of a youthful mind.  Most of the halls have anciently been beautified by fountains.  The fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the sparkling purity and reviving freshness of water; and they erected, as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate element.  Poetry mingles with architecture in the Alhambra.  It breathes along the very walls.  Wherever Antonio turned his eye, he beheld inscriptions in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish power and splendour within these walls was confidently predicted.