Aeolus and Neptune answer our prayer. The goodly ship she spins along. "She walks the waters like a thing of life." Soon the lands we eager seek will be descried, and, once again upon the sunny shore, we shall continue our observations, and freely share them with our friend upon Columbia's virgin soil. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. OUR RETURN TO CORDOVA. CORDOVA AT DAY-BREAK.--THE MOHAMMEDAN SABBATH.--THE YOUTH OF CORDOVA DISPORTS ITSELF UPON THE WATER.--SONG.--CHALLENGE BETWEEN OARSMAN.--THE MUEZZIN'S CALL.--THE GREAT MOSQUE.--A SERMON.--CHASDAI IBN SHAPRUT, THE JEWISH MINISTER TO THE CALIPH.--DUNASH IBN LABRAT.--ON THE WAY TO ABDALLAH IBN XAMRI, THE MOORISH POET. Again our light-winged boat glides upon the broad and silvery bosom of the majestic Guadalquiver, along parks filled with flowering shrubs, along glittering palaces and song-resounding woods, along palmy islets, and sweet scented and crimson-tinted hills. It is an early spring morning, nearly 1,000 years back in the world's history. Our boat makes a sudden turn, and Cordova, all glistening in the morning dew, raises her head as if from a bath in the crystal stream. Aurora, goddess of the dawn, blushes in the sky, and with her rosy fingers she sports playfully with the golden tresses of Andalusia's fairest daughter. It is morn, "When the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each moment, as slowly it breaks; Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth everyone Out of darkness, as if but just born of the sun." It is with difficulty that our agile oarsman, the raven-locked and graceful featured Jewish youth, whose services as guide we have again secured, makes his way among the countless pleasure boats that ply to and fro. We marvel at this, for distinctly we remember how the broad stream was furrowed during our first visit by boats of traffic only. "It is Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath," our guide informs us, and we no longer wonder. The boats, some gilded, some festooned, some decked with the richest tapestry, are peopled with gay and happy pleasure seekers. The whole youth of Cordova seems to disport itself upon the water. The air re-echoes their merry laughters and their music: "From psaltery, pipe and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or there own youthful voices, heavenlier still." The winged chorister of the woods and parks take up the refrain, and warble their sweetest, as if in contest with voices human for supremacy in song. But what is most strange and most charming is the continual challenge between the oarsmen for repartee songs, which are either extemporized at the moment, or quotations from their numerous poets. A boat crosses our path, stays our course, and its oarsman to test our guide's readiness to sing Cordova's praise, thus begins in the sweet tones of the poetic Arabic tongue: