CHAPTER XX 



Granada, March 27. 

 We had been up sketching in the Torre de la Vela ; that 

 is to say, the watch-tower, or Tower of the Candle, for I 

 believe vela means both, acquiring its metaphorical sense 

 from the vigilous uses of a rushlight. From the Torre de 

 la Vela, which stands out on the end of Alhambra's hill- 

 spur, and highest of Alhambra's towers, we had been 

 sketching the broken arches of Alkasabah. 



I was cramped with lying along a deep little window- 

 niche in the stair, about as big as half a stone coffin, into 

 which cool and shady hole I had stowed myself to avoid the 

 glare and heat at the top of the tower. Lying on my left 

 elbow to draw, and screwing my back and neck to peep out 

 of the aperture of this limited studio, exhausted my patience 

 rapidly ; and I scrambled out of my lair backwards, and 

 went up to the top to see how Harry was coming on. He 

 was in process of executing a very superior work of art, but 

 it was not half finished. 



Descending by the Post-office (which is in the same 

 street with our Fonda de la Amistad^ and in the direct way 

 between it and the Alhambra), we found the postmaster 

 sorting letters. On inquiring with a palpitating heart if 

 there was a letter for my name, I was told it was " regular 

 que no " (probable there was not), but that the list would 

 be out in a few minutes. When that portentous document 



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