The Helmet of Mambrino 



stained canvas, all that was left of 

 the sails, hung yellow, threadbare, 

 and moldering in the windless air. 



The walls of our doorway seemed 

 visibly to crumble. Here and there 

 lingering portions of stucco still clung 

 to a skeleton of bricks ; and over- 

 head, by the friendly aid of imagin- 

 ation, one could see that time out 

 of mind the arch had been white- 

 washed. 



Signs of life one by one appeared. 

 From a fold somewhere behind the 

 posada a small flock of gaunt, lately 

 sheared sheep slowly marched across 

 my narrow field of view. 



Single file, with heads down, they 

 noiselessly followed a path faintly 

 traced across the plain, the level sun 

 touching their thin backs, and casting 

 a procession of moving shadows on 

 the gray ground. One or two stopped 

 to rub against the foundation-stones 

 of the mill ; and presently all had 



