It has three
aisles with thick octagonal columns supporting heavy horseshoe arches.
The spandrels are curiously adorned with rich
Circular stucco figures.
The soil you tread is sacred, for it was brought from Zion long before
the Crusades; the cedar rafters above you preserve the memory and the
odors of Lebanon.
A little farther west, on a fine hill overlooking the river, in the
midst of the ruined palaces of the early kings, stands the beautiful
votive church of San Juan de los Reyes. It was built by Ferdinand and
Isabella, before the Columbus days, to commemorate a victory over their
neighbors the Portuguese. During a prolonged absence of the king, the
pious queen, wishing to prepare him a pleasant surprise, instead of
embroidering a pair of impracticable slippers as a faithful young wife
would do nowadays, finished this exquisite church by setting at work
upon it some regiments of stone-cutters and builders. It is not
difficult to imagine the beauty of the structure that greeted the king
on his welcome home. For even now, after the storms of four centuries
have beaten upon it, and the malignant hands of invading armies have
used their utmost malice against it, it is still a won-drously perfect
work of the Gothic inspiration.
We sat on the terrace benches to enjoy the light and graceful lines of
the building, the delicately ornate door, the unique drapery of iron
chains which the freed Christians hung here when delivered from the
hands of the Moors. A lovely child, with pensive blue eyes fringed with
long lashes, and the slow sweet smile of a Madonna, sat near us and sang
to a soft, monotonous air a war-song of the Carlists. Her beauty soon
attracted the artistic eyes of La Senora, and we learned she was named
Francisca, and her baby brother, whose flaxen head lay heavily on her
shoulder, was called Jesus Mary. She asked, Would we like to go into the
church? She knew the sacristan and would go for him. She ran away like a
fawn, the tow head of little Jesus tumbling dangerously about. She
reappeared in a moment; she had disposed of mi nino, as she called it,
and had found the sacristan. This personage was rather disappointing. A
sacristan should be aged and mouldy, clothed in black of a decent
shabbiness. This was a Toledan swell in a velvet shooting-jacket, and
yellow peg-top trousers. However, he had the wit to confine himself to
turning keys, and so we gradually recovered from the shock of the
shooting-jacket.
The church forms one great nave, divided into four vaults enriched with
wonderful stone lace-work. A superb frieze surrounds the entire nave,
bearing in great Gothic letters an inscription narrating the foundation
of the church. Everywhere the arms of Castile and Arragon, and the
wedded ciphers of the Catholic kings. Statues of heralds start
unexpectedly out from the face of the pillars. Fine as the church is, we
cannot linger here long.
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