International complications are never to be recklessly brought on.  But shall the assailing traveler quail before a gesture?  My store of Spanish passwords is exhausted, but there is one solvent yet remaining,—­the universal countersign.  With undiminished cheerfulness, I select from my pocket a stamped silver disk of well-known design, hold it significantly a moment in full view, and then confidently proceed up the staircase.

The armed figures vanish from view.  There is a foreboding silence as I near the heavy entrance-way at the top.  But before I can pound for admittance, the great door swings deferentially open, a guard within salutes still more deferentially, I advance, friend, and proffer the countersign,—­and the Monte Orgullo is won!

The view from this hill of Mars well merits the climb and any attendant risk to the home State Department.  The air is warm and still.  In front, the sea stretches to the horizon, smooth as the fair Glimmerglass loved by Deerslayer.  To the right flows a clear, quiet river, the Urumea, to meet it,—­a river on whose nearer bank below us lies buried many a brave English soldier, their graves marked by white headstones; and from the farther shore of which once flew leaden rain and iron hail from conquering English guns.  Behind us lies the city, asleep in the warm afternoon haze, and in the distance are the forms of purplish Pyrenees hills; while farther around opens the bright little bay,—­the Concha or Shell, happily so called,—­with villas fringing it’s curve, and an islet-pearl in its centre.  A wistful touch of peace and sunshine is over all the scene, as one views it, in the irony of fact, from this storm-centre of war.

There are barracks within the walls, and monster guns and other usual martial furnishings, and the fortifications themselves have, to some extent, been put in touch with modern requirements.  The garrison’s life is not hard, and they live contentedly through drill and evolution, ration and routine, and stroll down to the Alameda and Casino in hours of leave.  But theirs is a post of honor and danger, nevertheless.  San Sebastian lies foremost in the route of possible invasion.  It could not be ignored nor left untaken.  And the very isolation of this fortress, once its strength, is now its weakness.  It might serve to delay an onrushing army for a saving moment,—­a dog thrown out to check the wolves.  It could accomplish little more against the terrific artillery of to-day; and,—­as with the dog,—­the interval would prove a period of marked unrest to the fated garrison.

However, war is now at last, if never hitherto, extinct for all time, so trusts the world at peace.  And barrack-life is dreamy and easy, and the stroll down to the Alameda very pleasant, these fair days of summer.

But the white headstones on the river slope come out into view again, for a time, as I wander back down the spiral road toward the town and think on these things; a cloud drifts across the sun and dims their brightness; then the light pours down as before.