“A rare old suit of armor that which you wear, comrade. May I ask what corps you belong to?” The soldier gasped out a reply from a pair of jaws which seemed to have rusted on their hinges. “The royal guard of Ferdinand and Isabella.” “Santa Maria! Why, it is three centuries since that corps was in service.” “And for three centuries have I been mounting guard. Now I trust my tour of duty draws to a close. Dost thou desire fortune?” The student held up his tattered cloak in reply. “I understand thee. If thou hast faith and courage, follow me, and thy fortune is made.” “Softly, comrade, to follow thee would require small courage in one who has nothing to lose but life and an old guitar, neither of much value; but my faith is of a different matter, and not to be put in temptation. If it be any criminal act by which I am to mend my fortune, think not my ragged cloak will make me undertake it.” The soldier turned on him a look of high displeasure. “My sword,” said he, “has never been drawn but in the cause of the faith and the throne. I am a _Cristiano viejo_; trust in me and fear no evil.” The student followed him wondering. He observed that no one heeded their conversation, and that the soldier made his way through the various groups of idlers unnoticed, as if invisible. Crossing the bridge, the soldier led the way by a narrow and steep path past a Moorish mill and aqueduct, and up the ravine which separates the domains of the Generalife from those of the Alhambra. The last ray of the sun shone upon the red battlements of the latter, which beetled far above; and the convent-bells were proclaiming the festival of the ensuing day. The ravine was overshadowed by fig-trees, vines, and myrtles, and the outer towers and walls of the fortress. It was dark and lonely, and the twilight-loving bats began to flit about. At length the soldier halted at a remote and ruined tower, apparently intended to guard a Moorish aqueduct. He struck the foundation with the but-end of his spear. A rumbling sound was heard, and the solid stones yawned apart, leaving an opening as wide as a door. “Enter in the name of the Holy Trinity,” said the soldier, “and fear nothing.” The student’s heart quaked, but he made the sign of the cross, muttered his Ave Maria, and followed his mysterious guide into a deep vault cut out of the solid rock under the tower, and covered with Arabic inscriptions. The soldier pointed to a stone seat hewn along one side of the vault. “Behold,” said he, “my couch for three hundred years.” The bewildered student tried to force a joke. “By the blessed St. Anthony,” said he, “but you must have slept soundly, considering the hardness of your couch.”