The palace of the Counts of Onis deserves especial mention in this story. It was a very old building; some remains of the original edifice which were still extant, were the oldest part of the town. Nothing else was saved from the dreadful fire which destroyed the city in the fourteenth century. It was more like a fortress than a mansion. There were a few narrow windows fitted with stone columns, scattered capriciously over the façade, a bare stone wall blackened by time, with several square holes like ventilators near the roof, and a large door in the middle studded with heavy nails. Inside it was immense, and more cheerful. The courtyard was broader than the street.
The sun came in at the window at the back at midday, and its rays were tempered by the branches of the garden-trees which formed a pleasant curtain.
There was a great deal of mystery and enchantment about this old house for the Lancians, who were endowed with imagination; more especially for the children, who are the only beings who are open to weird fancies in this prosaic age.
The façade, if such a name can be given to the aforesaid wall, faced the Calle de la Misericordia, one of the most central streets of the town.
One of the windows, perchance the largest, overlooked the Calle de Cerrajerías, and from it could be seen the cathedral in the distance.
Here it was that the ex-colonel buried himself; for neither the entreaties of his wife nor the few relations who came to see him, prevailed on him to change his habits.
But his retirement was useful to the house, for he put the garden in order, had balconies placed at the back of the house, furnished various rooms, had the courtyard paved, &c.
Thus, without losing its character of mystery, the dismal old house was transformed into a pleasanter abode.
But the old soldier having fallen into disgrace, seemed to wither up within its walls like a tree in want of air and water.
A profound melancholy sapped his constitution: his skin became wrinkled, his hair turned white, his legs grew feeble, and his hands shaky.
At fifty-eight he looked as old as if he were seventy, but this change was unnoticed in the house.
He glided about the corridors like a ghost. Whole days went by without any one hearing the sound of his voice. But he was not disagreeable to anybody, and there was a sweet pleasant smile always on his lips.