[Illustration: The land of the boina. Alfonso XII at a picnic]
All day long as we toiled and twisted over the Cantabrian range and descended southward, this only was the topic of conversation of all grades and sexes of travelers. An hour's halt at Miranda and we creaked on along the bank of Spain's greatest river, the Ebro, talking still of bandoleros and the regret of their passing. Slowly the green tinge in the landscape faded away and in its place came reddish cliffs and a sun-seared and all but desert country spreading away from either bank of the red-dyed river, sterile rolling plains relieved only by small oases of fertility and isolated and in all probability bigoted villages standing colorless on colorless hillsides. As central Spain may be likened to rocky Judea, so this resembles in some degree Egypt, with the Ebro as the Nile.
It was late in the evening when I arrived in Saragossa and, crossing the broad river by the Puente de Piedra, found myself in one of the most labyrinthian cities of Spain. But so practiced had I grown in such quest that in less than an hour I had engaged accommodation at my own price, which by this time had descended to two and a half pesetas.
The "sight" par excellence of Saragossa is of course her "Virgen del Pilar." The story runs that Santiago, who is none other than Saint James, while wandering about Spain, as he was wont to ramble in various corners of the earth, was favored one evening by a call from the Mother of Christ, who, during all their little chat, stood on the top of a stone pillar. That the tale is true there seems little chance for doubt, for they have the pillar yet; and it is over this that has been erected the vast cathedral to which flock thousands of pilgrims during every month of the year.
I repaired to it early, but was soon turned melancholy with the recollection of Puck's profound saying anent the folly of mankind. The interior of the edifice is as impressive as that of an empty warehouse. Under the main dome is a large chapel screaming with riches, in the back of which, on her pillar, stands the Virgin--turned to black, half-decayed wood--dressed in more thousands of dollars' worth of gold and silver, of resplendent robes and vociferous gaudiness than god Juggernaut of India ever possessed at the height of his influence. Before it worshipers are always kneeling. In the back wall of the chapel is an opening through which one can touch the pillar--and find a cup-shaped hole worn in it by such action during the centuries. I sat down on a bench near the far-famed orifice, and for close upon an hour watched the unbroken procession file past. Beggar women, rag-pickers, ladies of wealth, cankerous old men, merchants, city sports, lawyers--Saragossa is the one city of Spain where even men go to church--every grade and variety of Aragonese pressed close upon the heels one of another, each bowing down as he passed to kiss the hole deeper into the pillar. At bottom the difference is slight indeed between the religion of the Spaniard and that of the Hindu.