THE TOWN.


not hope to find it? Perhaps, if he had waited,
- if he had been content to sit in the sun, watch-
ing with drowsy eyes the ring of sea and sky, and
forgotten to wonder or desire, he might have
found all things! He might have sunk into that
unspeakable content with life, which does not
know. Instead, he went away again, and died
"in great bitterness," The Sergeant knows all
about it. The Sergeant, dozing in the shadowy
sweep of the great irregular arch, or walking in
a pleasant dream back and forth across the
blazing white courtyard, with never a fear or
wonder or desire in his soul, knows quite well
that old Ponce de Leon was a fool. But what
of that? It is a good story to tell, and it is not
the Sergeant's business to point out its folly:
for that matter, all things are foolish when
one comes to look into them,--all things that
people make a fuss about, at least. Wisdom
is calm; the Sergeant is very wise. He is not
disturbed by any story he may have to tell.
 There were men left to starve in that dun-
geon beyond, he says, passively; and against
this wall, fretted with round holes, prisoners