We soon
reached the quay, where my name was noted down by a person who
demanded my passport, and I was then permitted to advance.
It was now dusk, and I lost no time in crossing the drawbridge and
entering the long low archway which, passing under the rampart,
communicates with the town. Beneath this archway paced with
measured tread, tall red-coated sentinels with shouldered guns.
There was no stopping, no sauntering in these men. There was no
laughter, no exchange of light conversation with the passers by,
but their bearing was that of British soldiers, conscious of the
duties of their station. What a difference between them and the
listless loiterers who stand at guard at the gate of a Spanish
garrisoned town.
I now proceeded up the principal street, which runs with a gentle
ascent along the base of the hill. Accustomed for some months past
to the melancholy silence of Seville, I was almost deafened by the
noise and bustle which reigned around. It was Sunday night, and of
course no business was going on, but there were throngs of people
passing up and down. Here was a military guard proceeding along;
here walked a group of officers, there a knot of soldiers stood
talking and laughing.
