The Ebro, as all the world knows--or will pretend to know,being an ignorant and vain world--runs through the city ofSaragossa. It is a river, moreover, which should be accorded thesympathy of this generation, for it is at once rapid andshallow.
On one side it is bordered by the wall of the city. The leftbank is low and sandy, liable to flood; a haunt of lizards in thesummer, of frogs in winter-time. The lower bank is bordered bypoplar trees, and here and there plots of land have beenrecovered from the riverbed for tillage and the growth of thatharsh red wine which seems to harden and thicken the men ofAragon.
One night, when a half moon hung over the domes of theCathedral of the Pillar, a man made his way through theundergrowth by the riverside and stumbled across the shingletowards the open shed which marks the landing-place of the onlyferry across the Ebro that