"And Perro is my bridesmaid." They turned sharply to the left and in a moment stood on the deserted ramparts close under the shadow of the Episcopal Palace.

Below them was darkness.

To the right, beneath them, the white falls of the river gleamed dimly above the bridge, and the roar of it came to their ears like the roar of the sea.
Far across the plain, the Pyrenees rose, range behind range, a white wall in the moonlight.

At their feet the walls of the ramparts, bastion below bastion, broken and crenelated, a triumph of mediaeval fortification, faded into the shadow where the river ran.
"There is a snow-drift in this corner," whispered Marcos.

"It is piled up against the rampart by the north wind.