There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in their changes.
And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched the sapphire waters of the Levant.
The train hurried on, and at Cerbère we bade farewell to pleasant France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbère nothing but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head, and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain--land of slow trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our luggage was destined to be the _bête noire_ of our wanderings.
"You wish to go to Gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket only states Barcelona. If you break your journey at Gerona, your luggage must go on to the farther town."
Again we protested--and again conquered. "For once I yield and make you an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at Gerona." All this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered.
At eight o'clock we reached Gerona, and even in the darkness could see its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that rolled below. The station was in an uproar. Crowds of people, young men and old, surged to and fro. Deafening shouts arose. What was the matter, and what could it mean? We gave a shrewd guess. Conscripts were going off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the conscripts joined uproariously. On the platform we almost fell against two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. Each had evidently come to see a son off. One was especially a typical Catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and picturesque costume. His friend called him Pedro. They had probably grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the world were being handed on to the boys--who no doubt troubled themselves very little about the matter.