We at length arrived on the highest part of the promontory above
Granada, called the mountain of the sun. The evening was
approaching; the setting sun just gilded the loftiest heights. Here
and there a solitary shepherd might be descried driving his flock down
the declivities, to be folded for the night; or a muleteer and his
lagging animals, threading some mountain path, to arrive at the city
gates before nightfall.
Presently the deep tones of the cathedral bell came swelling up
the defiles, proclaiming the hour of "oration" or prayer. The note was
responded to from the belfry of every church, and from the sweet bells
of the convents among the mountains. The shepherd paused on the fold
of the hill, the muleteer in the midst of the road, each took off
his hat and remained motionless for a time, murmuring his evening
prayer. There is always something pleasingly solemn in this custom, by
which, at a melodious signal, every human being throughout the land
unites at the same moment in a tribute of thanks to God for the
mercies of the day. It spreads a transient sanctity over the land, and
the sight of the sun sinking in all his glory, adds not a little to
the solemnity of the scene.
In the present instance the effect was heightened by the wild and
lonely nature of the place. We were on the naked and broken summit
of the haunted mountain of the sun, where ruined tanks and cisterns,
and the mouldering foundations of extensive buildings, spoke of former
populousness, but where all was now silent and desolate.
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