He took a couple of charmingly situated rooms in a venerable house on the banks of the Darro, looking down upon an old bridge which spanned the golden stream that comes down from the Sierra Nevada. The Alhambra Hill was close by, and the old city, rich with historic memories, in the plain below. He had little difficulty in ingratiating himself with the Gitanos. Knowing their language so well, they insisted that he must be of their race; and his dark complexion, fine eyes, and jet-black hair made it almost useless for him to deny that he was of gipsy stock. They argued that he must have their blood in his veins, even though he might not know it. He soon became very popular, and having no prejudice, but being of a thoroughly cosmopolitan mind, it was not long before he was looked upon as one of themselves. His hospital life helped him, and he soon became at home in the Sacro Monte. The gipsy quarter of Granada is one of the great sights of the place, and is the most romantic spot one can imagine. The pencil of a Doré and the pen of a Théophile Gautier have made it familiar enough to students of Spain and its people. CHAPTER XXV. “WHAT’S BECOME OF WARING?” Oh, never star Was lost here but it rose afar! Look east, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar! —_Browning._ Two years had passed away since Elsworth’s disappearance, and a little party of house physicians and surgeons—all young men and recently qualified—were sitting round the roaring fire in the snug quarters of the senior house surgeon at our hospital, discussing the sad fate of their old comrade. Young Harvey Bingley—a thoughtful and cultivated man, who, besides passing his exams, with credit, found time and inclination for literary pursuits, and especially loved to dig into Robert Browning’s poetry and extract a nugget from time to time—propounded the theory that perhaps Elsworth had gone off like Waring in Browning’s poem. Nobody saw the allusion, because nobody there knew anything of Browning; but Bingley was always worth listening to when he got on his hobby, so he was required to explain. “Well, you see, the poem opens with the question,— ‘What’s become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest, or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down Any longer London town?’