“Are you going through Spain to Paris?” That question was bandied about the ship day and night from Fayal to Gibraltar, and I thought I never could get so tired of hearing any one combination of words again or more tired of answering, “I don’t know.”  At the last moment six or seven had sufficient decision of character to make up their minds to go, and did go, and I felt a sense of relief at once—­it was forever too late now and I could make up my mind at my leisure not to go.  I must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up.

But behold how annoyances repeat themselves.  We had no sooner gotten rid of the Spain distress than the Gibraltar guides started another—­a tiresome repetition of a legend that had nothing very astonishing about it, even in the first place:  “That high hill yonder is called the Queen’s Chair; it is because one of the queens of Spain placed her chair there when the French and Spanish troops were besieging Gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot till the English flag was lowered from the fortresses.  If the English hadn’t been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day, she’d have had to break her oath or die up there.”

We rode on asses and mules up the steep, narrow streets and entered the subterranean galleries the English have blasted out in the rock.  These galleries are like spacious railway tunnels, and at short intervals in them great guns frown out upon sea and town through portholes five or six hundred feet above the ocean.  There is a mile or so of this subterranean work, and it must have cost a vast deal of money and labor.  The gallery guns command the peninsula and the harbors of both oceans, but they might as well not be there, I should think, for an army could hardly climb the perpendicular wall of the rock anyhow.  Those lofty portholes afford superb views of the sea, though.  At one place, where a jutting crag was hollowed out into a great chamber whose furniture was huge cannon and whose windows were portholes, a glimpse was caught of a hill not far away, and a soldier said: 

“That high hill yonder is called the Queen’s Chair; it is because a queen of Spain placed her chair there once when the French and Spanish troops were besieging Gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot till the English flag was lowered from the fortresses.  If the English hadn’t been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day, she’d have had to break her oath or die up there.”

On the topmost pinnacle of Gibraltar we halted a good while, and no doubt the mules were tired.  They had a right to be.  The military road was good, but rather steep, and there was a good deal of it.  The view from the narrow ledge was magnificent; from it vessels seeming like the tiniest little toy boats were turned into noble ships by the telescopes, and other vessels that were fifty miles away and even sixty, they said, and invisible to the naked eye, could be clearly distinguished through those same telescopes.  Below, on one side, we looked down upon an endless mass of batteries and on the other straight down to the sea.