CHAPTER V.

THE REGIMENT OF SAN ANTONIO.

You must know, Señora patrona, and señores, my friends, that Saint Anthony, the patron of Portugal and patriarch of monks, though born at Heraclea in Upper Egypt, on the borders of Acadia, so long ago as the third century, is now a member of the battalion in which I have the honour to hold the commission of major; and that he has been many times visible in its ranks, mounting guard, and always when under fire, or engaged with the French or Spaniards. Under Wellington in the last war he was frequently seen among our men, clad in a cloak of white wool, and wearing an inner garment of hair-cloth, with a bell tied to his neck, and a pig trotting beside him, for it was his favourite animal when he was hermit near the village of Coma. When our esteemed regiment was first embodied about a century and a half ago at the city of Lagos, in the ancient kingdom of Algarve, the blessed St. Anthony was enrolled in the muster-book thereof, as a private soldier, that he might be its especial patron and protector, even as he is the patron of the whole Portuguese nation.

He conducted himself with such fidelity, valour, and distinction, that he soon passed through the ranks of corporal and sergeant, and having restored, no one exactly knows how, the colours of the regiment, after they were lost at the battle of Almanza in 1706, he was appointed captain, and his pay, together with four marevedis from each soldier, were devoted to buy masses for the souls of our comrades who die on service—a very pretty perquisite, padre José, for mother church.

It would be a vain task in me to attempt enumerating the miracles performed by St. Anthony during the one hundred and eighty seven years he has belonged to the valiant regiment of Lagos in the kingdom of Algarve; for in danger, doubt, difficulty, or death, his comrades have never sought his aid in vain.

Our colours have been thrice lost in battle, after prodigious slaughter you may be sure—being Portugese colours; and were thrice restored to us, being found quietly in the colonel's tent the next morning, with the naked footmarks of a man and a pig—the blessed pig of course—impressed upon the turf! At the passage of the Guadalquiver, our drum-major was swept away and would have been drowned beyond a doubt, had he not called upon St. Anthony; and lo! an old man of most venerable aspect, clad in skins like this shepherd beside us, but with a long beard and leathern water-bottle hanging at his girdle, suddenly appeared among the reeds by the river side, and stretching out his crook, fished up the ponderous Anibale Pintado lightly as a straw, though he was at that moment in heavy marching order, with knapsack, blanket, great-coat, sword and his canteen, which was full of brandy. Then to think of the wounds that have been closed, the bullets that have been extracted, the bones that have been set, the sick made whole and fit for service, by our soldiers merely thinking on, or praying to, the glorious St. Anthony, would occupy all the paper in the kingdom of Algarve; but his crowning miracle was the birth of a child of the regiment, for one of our soldiers' wives being in labour, during the siege of Roses, and calling upon the saint in her pain, to the astonishment of the whole allied armies was delivered of a little drummer boy in the uniform of the battalion of Lagos! I hope I have now said enough to convince you that the regiment, and every member of it, are under the peculiar protection of the saint, and this, as I am about to have the honour of telling you, I experienced myself, although not a Portugese, but a native of the fair city of Seville; and as a further proof of what I have adduced, I will take the liberty of reading to you from my pocket-book, the following certificate of the military service performed by the saint—which certificate I copied fairly from the books of the noble regiment of Lagos in the kingdom of Algarve, being the document which was forwarded by one of my predecessors, then in command of the battalion, when recommending the blessed saint to further promotion from the rank of captain which he had held since the year 1706. (With this long and pompous flourish, the Spaniard opened his pocket-book, and read a translation from the Portugese, which ran as follows.)*

* See notes at end

"Don Herculeo Antonio Carlos Luiz, José Maria de Albuquerque e Arajo de Magalhaens Homem, noble of Her Majesty's household, cavalier of the sacred order of St. John of Jerusalem, and of the most illustrious the military order of Christ, lord of the towns and partidos of Moncarapacho and Terragudo, hereditary alcalde-mayor of the ancient city of Faro by the sea, and Major of the Regiment of Infantry of the noble city of Lagos in the kingdom of Algarve, for her most faithful majesty, Donna Maria, Francesco Isabella the first; whom God and the Blessed Virgin long preserve, &c., &c., &c.

"I hereby attest and certify to all who shall see these presents, signed at the bottom with my sign-manual, and the broad seal of my family arms a little to the left thereof, that the Lord St. Anthony of Lisbon (commonly and most falsely called of Padua) has been enlisted, and has borne a place in this regiment since the 24th of January, ever since the year of our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ 1668.

"I do further certify, upon my word of honour, as a noble, a knight, and a good Catholic, what hereunder followeth.

"That on the said 24th of January, 1668, by order of His Majesty Don Pedro II. (whom God hath in glory), then Regent of the valiant kingdoms of Portugal and Algarve for Don Alphonso VI.,—St. Anthony was duly enlisted as a private soldier in this Infantry Regiment of Lagos, when it was first formed by command of the same illustrious prince; and of that holy enlistment there is a register extant in vol. i. of the records of the said regiment, page 143, wherein he gave as security or caution for his good conduct, the queen of angels, who became answerable to the colonel that he would never desert his colours, but always behave as became a good Portugese grenadier. Hence did the saint continue to serve and do duty as a private until the 12th of March, 1683, on which day the same Prince Regent became King of Portugal by the death of his brother Don Alphonso VI., when he was graciously pleased to promote St. Anthony to the rank of Lieutenant of Grenadiers in the said regiment, for having, a short time before, valiantly put himself at the head, of a detachment of the regiment which was marching from Jurumenha to the garrison of Olivença, both in the province of Alentizo, and beat off four times their number of Castilians who had been lying in ambush for them, with the intention of carrying them all prisoners to the castle of Badajoz, the enemy having obtained information by spies, of the march of the said detachment, every soldier of which saw our blessed patron, visibly, and to all appearance in the body, and attended by his pig.

"I do further certify, that in all the above-cited registers, there is not any note of St. Anthony being guilty of bad conduct, disorder, or drunkenness; frequenting taverns, or other improper places; nor of his ever having been flogged or sent to the guard-house when a private: Thus during the whole time he has been an officer, now about one hundred and nine years, he has constantly done his duty with the greatest alacrity, at the head of the grenadiers, upon all occasions, in peace or war, conducting himself like an officer and a gentleman of good breeding; on all these accounts I hold him most worthy of being promoted to the rank of aggregate-major to our noble regiment of Lagos, with every other favour Her Majesty may be graciously pleased to bestow upon him. In testimony whereof, I have hereto affixed my name, at the Castle of Belem, this 25th day of March, in the year of our redemption, 1777.

"MAGALHAENS HOMEM."

(Thus ended this wonderful certificate, the contents of which, together with the pompous gravity of the reader, made Jack and I almost choke with suppressed laughter. The major then continued)—

Hereupon Her Most Faithful Majesty, who reigned at that time—now seventy-eight years ago—was pleased to promote the saint to the rank prayed for, and he is now our lieutenant-colonel by brevet. Once in each year it is the custom to send an officer to Lisbon to receive the pay and perquisites of St. Anthony from the royal treasury, and in the course of last year this most honourable duty devolved upon me.

We were then quartered at Barbacena in the jurisdiction of Elvas; and to this place I travelled alone from Lisbon, with the pay of the saint, which was to be given to the care of our chaplain. Being in moidores, it was not very bulky, but its value was great—its sanctity greater; and after traversing in safety the whole province of Alentijo, it was with some anxiety I saw the mountain Sierra, which lay between me and my destination, rising in my front, about sunset. The hope of being able to get across those rocky hills before the approaching night set fairly in never occurred to me. I found myself in a solitary spot, without shelter near, or any place where information of the right way could be gathered, and my horse was growing weary.

The sunlight died away behind me, and shed its last rays on the white walls, the square campanile and tall cypresses of a convent which crowned a height on my left; and on the red round towers of an old castle that topped a rock on my right; but both were in ruins and desolate, as the wars of the infidel Moors, ages ago, had left the first, and the desolating retreat of Marshal Massena had left the second. The older fragments of a Roman aqueduct lay between, and half hidden among wild shrubs. The pathway was rugged; untamed goats scrambled about; snakes hissed in the long grass, and eagles screamed in mid air. Ave Maria! it was impossible to conceive a place more dreary and desolate; but the way became still wilder, and as I progressed into the gorge of the Sierra, even the ruined works of man and the traces of his feet disappeared. I was in a desert, and, save the faint crescent moon, without a light or guide.

As I rode slowly on, thinking of the bright golden moidores of our Lord St. Anthony, with which my pouch was blessed, and reflecting on the prize they would be for any sacrilegious picaros who might be hovering in this dark wilderness, ever and anon humming a song, muttering an ave, and feeling the percussion caps on my pistols, I suddenly met a strange figure in the dim moonlight—a goat-herd, as he seemed to me.

He was clad in a zamarra of sheepskin, which he wore with the wool outwards; his white hair hung in tangled masses upon his shoulders; a bota was slung at his girdle, and he carried a stout Portuguese cajado, with a little cross stick nailed thereon, to give it more the aspect of a pastoral staff, than a weapon of defence.

"Vaya usted con Dios, Señor Major," said he.

"God be with you," I reiterated, a little scared on finding that this stranger knew my name; "you have the advantage of me, Señor Pastor."

"Hombre, do you think so? but do not be alarmed, for I am an old Christian, without stain of Moor or Jew in my veins. I am no enchanter——"

"Ave Maria, I should hope not!"

"Yet I know that you have in your pouch the pay of St. Anthony of Lisbon, whom rogues and fools style of Padua—what the devil should he have to do with Padua?—in your left breast pocket, all in fair round moidores of gold—eh, señor?"

"Very true, pastor," said I, slipping a finger into my near holster, and keeping my horse well in hand and beyond the reach of his cajado; "but how came you to know me?"

"I know every officer and soldier in the regiment of Lagos as well as if I had made them—and you especially, Señor Major."

"Well—and about the moidores," said I, uneasily; "you know of them, and what then?"

"Merely this, Señor Don Joaquim; that if you would arrive at Barbacena to-morrow with the pay of the patron of the regiment of Lagos——"

"In the kingdom of Algarve," suggested Jack Slingsby.

"Si, señor; and would hand it over safe and sound to the reverend chaplain," continued the old man, in a manner so impressive that a chill came over me, the more so as I saw his sunken eyes shining in the dim moonlight like two bits of green glass; "you will beware, my son and comrade, how you taste the wine of Xeres to-night."

"The wine of Xeres, father pastor," said I, with a loud laugh; "Heaven forgive you for the tempting thought; I am not likely to taste aught to-night but the chilling dew; yet if a good cup of Xeres did come my way——"

"Avoid it as you would poison, or by the soul of St. Anthony you will repent it."

At that name I raised my hand to my cap in salute, like a good soldier of the regiment of Lagos; while waving his hand authoritatively, the old man hobbled up the slope of the mountain pass and disappeared. As he did so I heard the tinkle of a bell, and for the first time perceived a little pig trotting by his side as he vanished in the shadow of the mountain and its moonlit rocks.

The scales fell from my eyes; por el Santo de los Santos, he was no other than our Lord Saint Anthony, whom I had seen. Who but he would have termed me "son and comrade?" sinner and fool that I was. The hair of my flesh stood up, as the Scripture says, and with a prayer on my lips I gored my poor nag with the spurs and dashed along the pass of the Sierra for two leagues more until the poor animal almost sank beneath me; but perceiving rest necessary for him, I reined up at the door of a lonely wayside inn, in a part of the country which was entirely unknown to me, and which seemed to be overshadowed by mountain peaks and masses of rock, the features and outlines of which were strange, and to me gloomy and fantastic. In my excitement, and the holy terror under which I laboured, I had evidently lost the path, and thus mistaking my way, had ridden, Heaven and St. Anthony alone knew whither.

Solitary, dark, and desolate as this posada seemed,—and it was just the kind of place we so often read of in romances as being a rendezvous for robbers, and for having a landlord in their interest, with trap-doors under the beds, stains of blood upon the floors, old skeletons in the cellars, and a terrible reputation for mysterious appearances and unaccountable disappearances—it was a welcome halting-place for one so weary, so thirsty, and anxious as I was then, and so full of supernatural fear, as I never, for an instant, doubted having seen the blessed patron of our regiment, and to me at that time the human countenance even of a robber had been thrice welcome.

Though the hour was late the hostalero had not gone to bed. He seemed a civil and respectable man, and smiled with good-humour when he saw me, with all the care of an old traveller and the suspicion of a true Spaniard, transfer my pistols from their holsters to my girdle, a movement which seemed to fill with alarm the miserable and drabbish-looking Maritornes, who seemed to be the sole assistant of the patrona. Vague fancies and a sense of alarm were floating uppermost in the current of my thoughts; and being most anxious to start betimes when day broke, I left the saddle on my horse, as I stabled him in the lower apartment of the posada, for you may know, señores, that the Portuguese inns are constructed exactly like those among us here in Spain, the lower story being entirely one vast and clay-floored chamber, appropriated to the cattle and baggage of travellers. I merely relaxed the saddle-girth and curb-chain, but left my Andalusian jennet all ready for marching, when the morning came, and then ascended by a wooden trap-stair to the upper story, where the patrona had a steaming supper of ham and eggs, just such as we have had, well seasoned with pepper and garlic, spread for me, with a bunch of raisins and a choice flask of—ah, demonio! my heart leaped when I saw it—the wine of Xeres de la Frontierra.

A prayer rose to my lips, I thought of St. Anthony, but felt strong and composed, believing that I was under the peculiar care of that blessed patron of the regiment of Lagos. I would have left the little venta and betaken myself once more to the road, but, if any snare was really laid for me, such a movement might only render me more liable to an open and deliberate attack.

"I will be wary," thought I; "let me watch well, even as our holy patron watches me. Xeres! ouf, I would rather drink the salt lake of Fuente de la Piedra than touch a drop of it."

I felt morally certain that it was poisoned or drugged for some fatal purpose, and that in the tasting of it lay the main part of my danger. I finished the rasher of ham and the fragrant huevos; and to lull all suspicion asked my host to join me in discussing the bottle of Xeres as he uncorked it.

"The señor would, perhaps, excuse him. Xeres always made him ill, maldito—yes, and there was no doctor nearer than Elvas or Abrantes; but he would take a glass of aguadiente to my health and successful journey."

"Rascally picaro!" thought I; "you have other reasons for declining the Xeres, but I shall mar them yet."

I might have forced him with my sword at his throat to drink a cupful; but I dissembled, and filling out a bumper from the leathern beta, raised it to my lips, pretending to taste. I saw, then, the slow stealthy eyes of the hostalero watching me keenly.

"It has a peculiar flavour," said I.

"Flavour, señor?" he asked, anxiously.

"But not unpleasant."

"It is from the grapes of Puerto de Santa Maria, like those of Tribujena, as the Señor Caballero will perceive; they have a peculiar flavour—sharp, is it not?"

"Yes, but as I said before, not unpleasant," continued I, placing my pistols on the table, and availing myself of an opportunity to pour the whole of my bumper back into the bota, and this I achieved unseen. Some grounds which remained at the bottom of the crystal glass assured me that the wine was drugged.

"I have a pigskin full of wine from the grapes of Don Carlos, or rather I should say of my Lord the Marquis de Santa Cruz, who now owns the vineyard; and if your grace——"

"Many thanks," said I, pouring out a second bumper, so that the wine frothed in the glass; "but be assured I shall content myself with this most excellent bottle of Xeres," and taking another opportunity, while the patrona was telling her beads near the fire, and the worthy patron was below pretending to groom my horse—but no doubt to appraise its furniture which he expected to possess before morning—I repeated the manoeuvre, and poured the wine back into its leathern receptacle; thus my deluded entertainers were led to believe that I had taken enough to drug a regiment of Asturians.

I scrutinised my hostess; she was a swarthy and dark-skinned Portuguese; her hair, which was coarse and thick as the mane of a steed, she had knotted in a coronet round her head, and over this she wore a yellow shawl. Her features were square, massive, and repulsive; and her arms and legs, which her scanty garments fully displayed, were disgustingly powerful and muscular.

"Are you not somewhat lonely here, señora?" I asked, when her orisons were over.

"Yes; but then we are never disturbed. Once, indeed, some drunken contrabandistas, riding to Gibraltar, made a noise at our door; but my husband shot one with his escopeta, the rest fled, and we have never been molested since. But erelong the new railway from Lisbon to Abrantes will change everything—for so the priests predict."

"You talk of this little shooting affair with delightful coolness," said I, "and just as if that devil of a contrabandista had been a crow. Ah, and so he was shot?"

"Yes, and buried about a mile beyond this," replied the woman, over whose dark eyes there passed a savage gleam; "perhaps, caballero, you observed the cross as you came along?"

"You forget that I came this morning from Montemor o Novo, where I wish I had stayed with all my heart."

"Ah, our caza is a very poor one, señor," growled the host, with a glance at my glass and another at the bota: "but none ever complain of it after they leave us."

"I believe you, my lad," said I, with a glance at the cuchillo in his sash; madre mia! it was at least twelve inches long in the blade. He detected my expression and said,—

"I am always well armed, Señor Caballero, for my little wife, our niece, and I, are the only inhabitants here. They are apt to be timid at times; thus I always keep my escopeta loaded, and six junkets of lead in that old brass-mouthed trabujo over the mantel-piece; so with my knife and strong bolts, bars and shutters, we could stand a very good siege, even if Don Fabrique de Urquija and all his band were assailing us. One glass more of the Xeres before you retire, señor—no?—well, how such a sober Caballero belongs to the regiment of Lagos surpasses my—a thousand pardons, señor; I meant no offence; but a poor man must have his little joke as well as a rich one, and I am sure a noble Caballero will excuse it. So you won't take one glass more of the Xeres before retiring, well, well—this way, señor, up this stair—take care of the step, and now, señor, Bueno noches, and may all good attend you."

I was alone. I was in my sleeping apartment, a miserable loft, to which I had ascended by means of a trap-door and trap-stair. The bed was poor and shabby; a thousand discolorations, the combined result of damp and dirt covered the ill-plastered walls and bare wooden floor. A small and ill-glazed window opened to the dark mountains, behind which the moon, a pale crescent, was just sinking, and to the deep black gorge which yawned between their peaks like some vast Titan's grave. There was not a sound upon those solemn hills, or in that savage pass through which the roadway wound; there was no sound in the posada below me, and as I set down the candle and listened, I heard only its sputtering and the beating of my own heart.

I knelt down, and drawing forth my beads and crucifix, said my prayers like a good Catholic, and solemnly invoked the protection of St. Anthony. After this, apprehension almost vanished.

If any attempt was made upon me in the night, I had but one man to oppose—the hostalero, and surely I was a match for him. But then there was his wife, a powerful Asturian termagant, who had doubtless the cunning of a fox with the strength of a bull. I looked about for something wherewith to secure the trapdoor, but found nothing; my bedstead was the only piece of furniture, and it was too weighty for removal. I might have lain down and slept above the trap; but the idea did not then occur to me; and at times, as my candle burned low, such is the weakness of the human heart, that I began to mistrust even the protection of my Lord St. Anthony, and think I was unwise in not quitting this unblessed posada, instead of retiring to a bed-chamber, as the hostalero might be joined by others more ruffianly than himself, and thus overpower me.

"No, no," thought I; "no others will come; the rascal trusts in his Xeres, and I shall soon see the sequel."

I drew off my boots and flung them heavily on the floor, as one might do who was undressing; and having thus, as I supposed, deceived any one who was listening, drew them carefully on again; tightened the buckle of my waist-belt, and loosened my good Toledo sabre in its sheath. I then examined my pistols; ay de mi! what were my emotions on finding the percussion caps removed, and that my pouch, with the remainder, was in my holsters below!

My heart stood still on beholding this, and an emotion of rage shook my heart, for I now remembered having laid them on the table beside me in case of accident, for I once had a friend who was killed by a pistol exploding in his belt. The patrona, while laying the supper table, or bustling about me, had adroitly—but the saints alone know how—removed the caps.

Twenty times I searched every pocket, in the faint and desperate hope of finding a stray one. Not one—they were all below with my holsters.

"Ass that I am!" thought I, replacing them with a sigh in my belt; "this will be a lesson of prudence that may cost me dear."

At that moment the candle-end sank down in the iron holder; it shot one red flush upwards on the cobwebbed ceiling and damp, discoloured walls; on the ill-jointed trap-door which led to the lower story, and expired. I was in darkness at last, with no companions but my Toledo and my own thoughts. The first was silent—the second sufficiently uncomfortable.

Sleepless and watchful, I lay on the miserable pallet for more than an hour, till the silence began to oppress me, and in spite of myself, my eyes were closing. Could it be the drug—could it be the wine that slowly was sealing them up? Nonsense; I had but put it to my lips, and I struggled to shake off the coming sleep. Yet, I must have closed my eyes for a moment, for I started suddenly, like one who dreams he is on the brink of a precipice. A strange shivering—a minute, pricking sensation ran all over me from head to foot, and from a state of drowsiness, I sprang all at once to the sharpest wakefulness, and grasped the hilt of my drawn sabre.

A dim light was now ascending from the floor of the apartment, and I perceived the trap-door was lifted up, and the round bullet-head of the hostalero appeared, with his deep-set stealthy eyes, scanning the bed and its occupant, myself, who affected to be sound asleep. Up, up he came, step by step, until he stood by my side, with one hand grasping his long cuchillo, and a finger on his coarse, blubber-like lips, as if he would impose silence on himself, and still his very breathing.

Mueran del Demonio, what a moment it was! I would not endure it again for a million of reals. He came close to the bed; he stooped over me, the knife was lifted up, and I saw its baleful gleam; but at the same instant there was an upward flash, as I swept my sabre round me, and one stroke cut off three of the robber's fingers, and cleft a fair slice off his right temple—a stroke which stretched him without a cry at my feet. Desperate and furious as a wild beast—half blinded with his own blood, he sprang upon me and we grappled in the dark; but as his wife, that diabolical Asturian, rushed up the trap-stair, armed with a ponderous cajado, to his aid, I flung him on the bed, for he was weak as a child now. Seeing a figure struggling on the miserable pallet, the woman, who was as furious as an enraged tigress, and who, in the uncertain light, believed that figure to be mine, whirled round her head the cajado—which is the favourite staff of the Portuguese, and is usually seven feet long, with a leaden knob at one end of it—and by one blow dashed out her husband's brains as completely as a cannon-ball would have done.

Madre mia, some of that frightful mess flew over me, and that blow ended the matter, for I uttered a cry of horror, and plunging down the trap-stair, threw myself on my horse, and galloped away. On, on I rode, with no wish but to leave that scene of crime behind me, and at the very place where I was met by that venerable shepherd, whom, until my dying hour, I will maintain to be no other than our blessed St. Anthony, but for whose warning I had drunk that poisoned Xeres, and perished—I overtook a troop of the Carbineros of Alentejo, to whom I told my late adventure.

A party was sent to the little inn, where they found the hostalero brained, as I have said, in that miserable loft, and the hostess almost bereft of her senses, such as they were. But the dragoons placed her on a troop horse, and brought her before the Alcalde of Vimiero, which is the nearest town, and before the next day's noon, she had been garotted and buried by the wayside; and you may still see her grave, one mile beyond the gates, on the side of the way that leads towards Estremoz and the mountains.

Two days after, I reached Barbacena, our headquarters, in safety, and paid over to our Father Chaplain, the purse of moidores, containing the pay of our extra Lieutenant-Colonel, the blessed St. Anthony. Only a month ago, we marched through the pass of the Sierra, and I found the old posada roofless by the roadside, for it is shunned like that place of horror, the Rio de Muerte; the grass has grown on its floor, and the wild vine overtops its chimney; the merriest muleteer becomes silent as he passes the place, and whips his lagging team down the mountain side, without looking once behind him.

—————

The major of the noble Regiment of Lagos now paused, and looked round with the air of a man who thinks his story has rather made an impression; for he had told it well, and with much gesture and spirit, and completely succeeded in arresting the attention of all in the venta; but of none more than my matter-of-fact friend Jack Slingsby, who had listened to the narrative with a degree of attention which I thought unusual in one so volatile and heedless.

"Your story, major, has had a peculiar interest for me by its striking and close resemblance to an adventure of my own," said Jack, "an adventure to which I can never recur without an emotion of horror."

"Is this the Spanish story you so often refer to, Jack?" said I.

"The story our mess could never get out of me?—yes."

"And shall we hear it now?"

"With pleasure; because it will interest all here, whereas among our own bantering fellows at Gibraltar it would only have subjected me, perhaps, to jibes and jokes, and all that sort of thing, from those who were, perhaps, more thoughtless than myself. Señora patrona, please to have the wine replenished; give us more cigars, and stir up the fire, Ramble, while I prepare to tell you a story—aye, a marvel of a story, in which I had the misfortune to be a principal actor not very long ago."

"Bravo!" muttered every one.

All were provided with a fresh supply of wine, new cigars were lighted, and Jack found himself the centre of a circle of dark, gleaming, and intelligent eyes, while every ear was waiting for the promised narrative; for among the romantic, adventurous, and marvel-loving Spaniards, as among the wandering Arabs, a story-teller is at all times the principal person in company.

It would be scarcely possible to find a scene more remarkable, or a group more picturesque, than the great apartment presented, in which we were all congregated.

A large fire blazed on its broad hearth, and shed a ruddy glow upon the rough architecture and ill-squared beams of the chamber, from the roof of which hung innumerable bunches of raisins, strings of the garlic onion, pigskins of wine, hams, baskets, and other etcetera. The flood of steady red light that gushed from the hearth glared on the striking forms and foreign faces of the listening group, among whom were the well-conditioned potters and soap-boilers of Seville in their black velvet jackets and gaudy sashes; our patrona, a plump and pretty paisana of Valverde, in her provincial costume, a dark blue skirt, the scantiness of which displayed her well-turned legs and handsome feet encased in little shoes of untanned leather, while the gathered masses of her smooth black hair shone in the glow of light; there, too, sat the old padre José of Medina in his sable cape and long cassock, and a grisly goatherd of the Honda clad from neck to knee in sheepskins, with a weatherbeaten sombrero slouched over his sallow visage; a knife and bota, castanets and flute, at his girdle, to which descended his snow-white beard, giving him the aspect of St. Anthony in the major's story; then there was the major himself in his light green frock-coat, scarlet cap and trowsers, with a cigar glowing like a hot coal in the centre of his heavy thick mustache; then there was an old unhoused Franciscan, begging for that subsistence of which the new Government had deprived his order; a charming young Gitana, tall and beautiful in form, with a clear olive complexion and magnificent eyes; and by her side sat a free, jolly Catalan reaper, whom in defiance of all gypsy rule and immemorial custom she had taken as her spouse; so it must be acknowledged that if Jack's audience was not select, it had at least the merit of being so remarkable in costume and character, that a painter or novelist would have been delighted with the whole group, its background, and accessories.

"In many of its features," said Slingsby, "my story is so similar to the one just related by the major, that I am assured you cannot fail to be struck with the resemblance. The adventure made a deep impression upon me; and though several months have passed since it occurred, the whole affair is as fresh in my mind as if it had happened only yesterday. On leaving the 6th Regiment," continued Jack, turning to me, "I went for a few months into the Highlanders, but, being an Englishman, I never felt at home in the kilt, so I exchanged into our present corps, which will account for my being in the Mediterranean at the time referred to.—So now for the story."

"Bravo, señor!" said the major of the regiment of Lagos; "you speak Spanish like a good Christian. We are all attention."

Jack bowed, stuck his glass in his eye, tipped the ashes off his cigar with the nail of his forefinger, and began the following story, which deserves an entire chapter devoted to itself.

CHAPTER VI

LA POSADA DEL CAVALLO.

In the summer of last year, I was proceeding home to Britain on leave of absence from my regiment, the —th Highlanders, which were then, and are still, lying in garrison at Malta. Favoured by the friendship of her commander, and my good friend and old school-fellow, Lieutenant John Hall, I had a passage given to me in Her Majesty's Sloop Blonde, of twenty-six guns; and after a pleasant run for a few days, a smart breeze, which we encountered off Almuneçar, when sailing along the coast of Spain, brought down some of our top hamper, and we ran in to Malaga to repair the damage.

It was a beautiful and sunny evening when our anchor plunged into the shining waters of that deep bay which presents so superb a line of coast, and the background of which is formed by the undulating line of the Sierra de Mija towering into the pure blue sky of Spain, and bounding, in the distance, the flat and fertile Vega.

From the quarter-deck of the Blonde, we had a magnificent prospect of Malaga, with its stately mansions, its domes, its spires and snowy kiosks, bathed in a warm yellow tint as the sun's rays faded along the Vega, and the shadows deepened on its hills, clothed with vineyards and plantations of orange, almond, lemon and olive trees. The gaudy Spanish flag descended from the dark ramparts of the old Moorish fortress of Gibral-Faro as the evening gun was fired from the guard-ship; and then, as the sun set behind tha mountains, the bells tolled for vespers in the lofty steeple of the square Cathedral, and a red lambent light began to glimmer on the tall brick chimneys of that extensive iron-foundry, which (alas for romance!) a thoroughly practical Scotsman has built in Malaga, where it finds food and work for hundreds, in smelting the ore of the adjacent hills, while it pollutes the cerulean sky of Granada.

Bent upon a ramble or adventure, the second-lieutenant (Jack Hall) and I took our fowling-pieces, and, leaving our swords behind us—at least I took only my regimental dirk—were pulled ashore in the dingy, which landed us at one of those piers that project from the city into the sea, forming part of that noble mole which measures seven hundred yards in length.

Leaving our guns and shooting apparatus at our hotel, we wandered about the town; visited the Alcazaba, which must once have been a fortress of vast strength; then the old Roman Cathedral and Bishop's Palace; but we lingered longest in the Alameda—that beautiful promenade—which is eighty feet wide, and is bordered by rows of orange and oleander trees, and in the centre of which a magnificent marble fountain was tossing its sparkling waters into the starry sky.

Here we saw some bright-eyed Spanish women in their dark mantillas and veils, and not a few in tha homely and assuredly less graceful bonnet and shawl of London and Paris, whose fashions are gradually, and, I think, unfortunately, superseding the more captivating dress of old Spain; we saw too, ferocious-looking soldiers in dark dresses, weaving yellow sashes, red forage caps, and enormous moustaches; old priests gliding stealthily along, with an aspect of meekness, and apparently crushed in spirit; for the Government presses with a heavy hand on the ecclesiastics; citizens clad in light stuffs of bright colours, with red sashes and low-crowned hats, having black silk tufts at each side; queer-looking Caballeros in large brown cloaks like that of Don Diego de Mendoza's "Poor Hidalgo," and wearing hats 'à la Kossuth.' As every man was smoking as if his salvation depended upon his doing so with vigour, the whole air was redolent of cigars.

I had on my undress, a forage cap, and plain red jacket, with tartan trews, my sash and dirk; for I have found that the British uniform always ensures the wearer attention and respect in every part of the globe.

We wandered long in that lovely Alameda, until the last of its fair promenaders had withdrawn; and then we returned to our hotel rather disappointed, that of all the black eyes we had seen flashing under veils of Madeira lace, not one had given us a glance of encouragement; that of all the pretty lips, which had been lisping dulcet Spanish mixed with the Arabic of Granada, none had invited us to follow; that of all the sombre cavaliers, not one appeared to be an assassin or a Grand Inquisitor; and that, of all the hideous old duennas whom we had seen cruising about us, not one had approached, and with finger on her lip, and an impressive glance in her eye, placed a mysterious note into either of our hands, and "disappeared in the crowd."

Nothing remarkable happened, save that Hall had his pocket picked of his handkerchief and cigar-case, and we returned like other men to our hotel, where we supped on devilled turkey and the wine of the district, Tierno and Malaga; after which we turned into bed, warning the waiter to summon us early, and have a guide to lead us toward the neighbouring hills, where we intended to make some havock among the game next day.

Punctually at five o'clock in the morning the mozo-de-cafe roused us, and, after coffee, we shouldered our double-barrelled rifles, and accompanied by a young 'gamin' named Pedrillo, for whose fidelity the waiter pledged his "honour," we departed on our ramble.

If ever you saw the Spanish beggar-boys, as depicted by Murillo in his famous picture, which is now in Dulwich College, they will know perfectly the aspect of Pedrillo, our little guide.

He was about twelve years old; but, hardened by indigence and sharpened by privation, his perceptive faculties were keener than those of many a man. His sallow little visage was stamped with more of the animal than the intellectual being; his eyes were black, glossy, and glittered alternately with cunning and intelligence. His sole attire consisted of a dilapidated shirt, a pair of knee-breeches, and a cowl, which confined his luxuriant black hair; he had zinc rings in his ears, and bore altogether the aspect of a little Lazzarone.

He was intelligent withal, and he told us a vast number of anecdotes, which increased in wonder and ferocity as we paid him one peseta after another; but he dwelt particularly on the achievements of a certain Juan Roa, otherwise styled de Antequera, who was then prowling in that savage range of mountains, from whence he descended sometimes alone, sometimes with many followers, especially when the Solano blew from Africa, to commit outrages among the quiet quintas and villages of the fertile Vega, where he was said to be in league with every posada-keeper for forty miles around Malaga.

About mid-day we rested under the cool shadow of a cork wood, about ten miles from the city; it was a beautiful place, where the sward was soft as velvet, and where a thick border of blushing rose-trees, and wild hydrangias flourished near us. Here we shared our provisions with a paisano and two armed contrabandistas whom we met, and who shared with us their wine in return. The two smugglers had strong and active horses, and carried blunderbusses and pistols to guard their bales of chocolate, soap, tobacco, and cigars; they were fine, merry fellows, gaudily dressed, and full of fun and anecdote; for in Spain the contrabandista is a species of travelling newspaper. Now all their news were of the last feat or outrage of Juan Roa.

"I would give a guinea to meet this interesting vagabond; the interview would tell famously in some of the monthlies," said Hall, with a heedless laugh.

"I think I should know him," said I; "for we saw at least twenty coloured prints of him in the shops on the Alameda, last night. He is a ferocious-looking dog!"

The contrabandistas looked round with alarm, and then laughed immoderately.

"Ferocious? Indeed, señor?" said the paisano; "I beg to differ from you, having myself seen Juan of Antequera face to face; and so think him quite like other men."

I gazed at the speaker, whom, by his green velvet jacket, adorned by four dozen of brass buttons, his sombrero, with its broad yellow ribband, his black plush breeches, red scarf and shoe-buckles, I supposed to be the substantial farmer of one of the adjacent quintas. He had a fine dark face, a powerful figure, and two black eyes that seemed to be always looking through me. Over one eyebrow, he had a large black patch. He carried a riding switch, had a knife in his girdle; and altogether, as he lolled on the sward, smoking a paper cigar and sipping red wine, I thought he would make a fine and striking sketch, and equal to any by Pinelli.

"Juan Roa," said he, "has committed great outrages in the Vega of Granada. The Duke of Wellington has there an estate, having on it about three hundred tenants, who yield some fifteen thousand dollars of rental; but Juan has thrice drawn every duro of it from the old abagado, who acts as steward to the duke."

The contrabandistas again laughed at this immoderately.

"You have seen this Juan of Antequera, have you not?" said I.

"Face to face—often, señor."

"And so have I," said little Pedrillo.

"You! and when was this, my little fellow?" said Jack Hall.

"On the night old Barradas, the muleteer, was murdered."

The Spaniard with the patch knit his brows.

"Caramba!" said he; "ah! I remember that."

"Tell us about this murder," said Hall.

"You must know, señors," said Pedrillo, "that at the foot of the Sierra de Mija, about five miles from this, there stands a wayside inn, called La Posada del Cavallo, for the keeper, Martin Secco, had a great horse painted on his signboard. This man is the uncle of Juan Roa, or of Antequera. He has a wife, and had two daughters. The place is lonely; and it often happens, that those who put up there for the night forget the right path; for they are lost among the mountains, or fall into the sand-pits—at least, they are seldom heard of after. You understand, señors?"

The Spaniard with the patch smiled grimly, and played with his knife.

"One night last year, I guided Pedro Barradas, the Cordovan muleteer, to the posada, when it was dark as pitch. Pedro was very old, and half blind, and had never been that way before. A storm came on, and he desired me to remain with him, saying he would pay me well; old Barradas was rich; he had made money in the war of independence, and in the last civil war between the Carlists and Christines; and had given three silver images to the church of his native puebla in Jaen.

"We supped on baccallao, raisins, and plain bread, for the season was Lent. While we were at supper, in the common hall of the posada, I heard the rain pattering on the wooden shutters (there is not a glass window in the house); I heard the thunder grumbling among the hills, and the wind howling as it swept over the fields and vineyards of the Vega. It was a lonely place for a poor boy who had neither father nor mother, señors; but, then, I was not worth killing, though many fears flitted through my mind; for Martin's wife—an ugly and wicked-looking Basque provincial—put some very alarming questions to old Pedro Barradas. She told him that the neighbourhood was infested by bandidos and contrabandistas; and asked if he was a heavy sleeper.

"'No,' said Barradas, 'in the war against Joseph Buonaparte I learned the art of sleeping lightly.'

"'But what will you do if attacked?'

"'That is as may be; but I have only twenty duros, and so shall sleep soundly enough.'

"These questions alarmed me very much; visions of murder and slaughter came before me. I crept close to Barradas, who, as I have said, was very old and very frail; but his presence seemed a protection to me for a time.

"When the hour for bed arrived, we, who were the only guests, were somewhat imperatively requested to retire to our rooms by the wife of Martin Secco.

"Barradas saw, perhaps, his danger, and said that I should sleep in the same room with him.

"But Inez Secco told him roughly that he must be content to sleep alone. Then the poor old man was half-led and half-dragged away. As for me, I was but a boy; so they thrust me into a dark closet, where some straw lay on the floor, and, desiring me to sleep there and be thankful, left me.

"I lay down on the straw, and finding it wet, arose in horror, fearing that it was blood; and so I remained in the dark, praying to our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, and trembling and listening to the howling of the storm for more than an hour, when all the other sounds in that terrible posada died away.

"I was just beginning to dose when a ray of light streamed through the keyhole of my door; I heard it opened, and lo! Martin's wife, Inez Secco, appeared with a long and sharp cuchillo in her hand. A man accompanied her. He was Juan Roa de Antequera! Terror paralysed me; and she believed me to be asleep, for she felt all over my clothes—that is, my poor shirt and breeches-pockets, from which she took two quarter-duros—all I possessed in this world; and then, passing the light thrice across my face, to assure herself that I slept, the hag went away muttering—

"'Caramba! only a half-duro; this little wretch is neither worth lodging nor killing.'

"Immediately after this I heard them whispering with Martin Secco; and then they knocked at the door of old Pedro Barradas, who, like a cautious man, had fastened it on the inside.

"'Get up,' said they, 'Señor Barradas—get up—you are wanted.'

"But old Barradas either slept like a top, or he was too wary to open; for he heeded them not.

"Then I heard Juan and Martin muttering curses as they deliberately forced open the door; next there came a terrible cry of—

"'Help! Pedrillo, help! Ayuda, por amor de neustra Señora Santissima!'

"This was followed by sounds like those made by a sheep when the knife of the carnicero is in its throat; and, in the meantime, Martin's two daughters were singing as loud as they could, and dancing a bolero in the passage, to conceal these terrible sounds, which froze the blood within me."

Here Pedrillo paused.

"Go on," said Jack Hall, impatiently; "and how did you escape?"

"If the noble señors would help me to refresh my memory——"

"Ah, I comprehend," said I, tossing a peseta to him; "now fire away, Pedrillo."

"You should not encourage this young picaro, Señor Caballero," said the Spaniard, whose face was now darkened by a terrible frown; "for it is my belief that he was the mere decoy, who led poor old Pedro Barradas to that villanous posada."

Instead of being angry, Pedrillo lifted up his hands, and prayed that Heaven and our Lady of the Seven Sorrows would forgive the speaker for his vile suspicions.

"I never closed an eye that night. In the morning I was told by Inez the Patrona, that old Barradas had departed across the hills of Antequera without me. Martin Secco asked me how I had slept? I said, like a dormouse; and as soon as I was free, I ran like a hare back to Malaga; and to make up for the loss of my last night's rest, slept like a torpedo under the trees of the Alameda."

"You acquainted the magistrates—the alguazils, of course," said Hall, knocking the ashes from his third cigar.

"I was only a poor, ragged, little picaro," replied Pedrillo, in a whining voice; "and who would believe me? Besides, old Barradas was a stranger from Cordova or Jaen; and a man, more or less, is nothing in Granada; but since that time Martin's two daughters have been sent to the galleys at Barcelona, by the captain-general of the kingdom, for intriguing in many ways with the contrabandistas of Jaen. Now, señors, the noon is past; and if it please you, 't is time we were moving, if you wish to reach the Sierra."

While we were placing fresh caps on our rifles, and preparing to start, the Spaniard with the patch, who had listened to Pedrillo's story with great impatience, now seized that young gamin by the arm, and grasping it like a vice, gave him a savage scowl, and said something in Spanish; but so rapidly, that I could only make out that he was reprehending him severely for telling us "a succession of falsehoods."

So I thought at that time; afterwards I was enabled to put a different construction upon his indignation, at which Pedrillo seemed to be considerably alarmed.

Bidding adieu to him and the contrabandistas, we departed under Pedrillo's guidance, and (sans leave) shot all along the sides of the mountain range, on the slope of which stands the small but ancient city of Antequera, so noted for the revolt of the Moors in the sixteenth century; and had some narrow escapes from falling into those remarkable pits, where the water settles in the low places, and is formed into salt by the mere heat of the sun.

We did not see much game, but knocked over a few brace of birds, and with these, and two red foxes, our little guide Pedrillo was quite laden. So he seemed to think; for, taking advantage of the concealment afforded him by some olive groves, and the scattered remnants of an abandoned vineyard, among which we had become entangled, the young rogue slipped away with our game and made off, either towards Malaga or Antequera; at least we saw no more of him, or of his burden at that time.

This was just about the close of the day, when Hall and I were draining the last drop of our flask, and surveying from the mountain slope the magnificent prospect of the verdant Vega, spreading at our feet like a brightly-tinted map, having that warm and roseate glow, which well might win it the name of Tierra Caliente. Malaga, the ancient bulwark of Spain against Africa, was shining in the distance, with its towers and gates, its flat-roofed houses, and vast cathedral; its Moorish castles and gothic spires, all bathed in a warm and sunny yellow; while beyond lay the broad blue Mediterranean, dotted by sails, and changing from gold to purple and to blue.

This was all very fine: but our pleasure was lessened by the conviction that our little rascal Pedrillo was absconding with our game; and we knew that it would never do to relate to the gun-room mess how we had been outwitted, on returning to the Blonde next day.

The foreground of this beautiful panorama was broken by innumerable small hillocks and clumps of wood of many kinds; but principally olive, pine, and cork trees, that grew on the slope of the great Sierra; and though the sky and landscape darkened fast after the sun set, we instituted a strict and angry search for Pedrillo, shouting and whistling as we stumbled on, we knew not very well whither, looking for our lost spoils—two foxes, with gallant brushes, and eight brace of birds.

No moon had risen: the wind began to whistle among the groves and hollows; the night was very dark.

"What, if we should meet Master Juan of Antequera?" said I.

"If he had our game, I should be very well pleased," replied Hall; "but I wish that Pedrillo had been with old Scratch when we hired him yesterday. If I had the little lubber on board the Blonde, I would show him the maintop."

"Spain is a land of mishaps and events," said I.

"Yesterday we were wishing for an adventure."

"And to-night we have one with a vengeance!" said I.

"Belay; I see some one moving in that hollow. Let us jump down—ahoy below there!"

"But we may lose the track," I urged.

"True; so do you remain where you are, while I go down into the hollow. Hollo now and then, to let me know your whereabouts."

With his rifle in his hand, Hall, who was a fine active fellow, sprang down into a ravine that suddenly yawned before us, and I remained with my rifle cocked, and stooped low to watch what might follow. Hall disappeared in the obscurity below. I halloed; but the night wind tossed back my own shout upon me. Then I thought I heard his voice, and sprang after him; but fell upon a point of rock, and sank, completely stunned, to the earth.

There I lay for nearly a quarter of an hour, unable to move, or rally my senses. When I arose, I found myself at the bottom of the hollow, and upon a narrow mule track; the moon was rising brightly at the south end of the ravine, silvering the masses of rocks, tufts of laurel-trees, and wild vines that grew in the clefts of the basalt. I shouted, but received no reply; and after a long and fruitless search could discover no trace of Hall in any direction.

Considerably alarmed for his safety as well as my own—for to lie at night upon those hills of Antequera, with the devilish stories of Pedrillo and the contrabandistas haunting one's memory, was anything but pleasant—I tried the charges of my rifle, looked again to the percussion-caps, and set off in that direction where, by the rising of the moon, I knew that Malaga must lie; but frequently paused to hollo for Jack Hall, and received no reply save the echoes of the rocks.

The ravine descended and grew more open. Again I saw the Vega sleeping at my feet in the haze; and, on turning an angle of the road, found myself close to an inn or taberna, which I approached with joy, concluding that my friend Jack must have gone that way, and would probably be there.

Like all Spanish inns, it was a large and mis-shapen edifice, the lower story of which was nothing better than a great open shed, for mules and vehicles; and, ascending from thence by a stair, I reached a gallery, at the door of which I was received by the host, who carried in his hand a stable lantern.

"Entrar," said he, bowing profoundly; "entrar, señor."

"I have been shooting on the mountains," said I, "and have lost my companion, a British naval officer. Has he passed this way?"

"No, señor," replied the host, (whose face I could not yet see,) as he led me up another stair.

"Then get supper prepared; for he must soon be here, as I have no doubt he knows pretty well the direction of Malaga. And now," said I, drawing a long breath, as I seated myself, "what place is this?"

"La Posada del Cavallo." (!)

"Eh! ah—and you?" I asked, in a thick voice.

"Martin Secco, at your service, Señor Caballero!"

"Here was a dénouement!

"Good Heavens!" thought I, mechanically resuming my rifle; "if the stories of Pedrillo should be true."

I scrutinised my host and hostess.

Martin had a broad and open visage, with keen eyes, and a black beard as thick as a horse-brush; a wide mouth, that frequently expanded in grins; but in those grins no radiance ever lit up his glassy eyes. The mouth laughed; but they remained immovable—invariably a bad sign. His forehead receded, and his ears were placed high upon his head. At the first glance, I concluded that my señor patron was an unmitigated brute. His figure was somewhat portly, and encased in a brown jacket, brown knee-breeches, and black stockings; he wore his hair confined in a caul, and had a yellow sash round his waist.

His wife was, as Pedrillo had described Inez Secco, a Basque, for her Spanish was almost unintelligible; and her coarse black hair was plaited in one thick tail, which reached to her heels. Her gown was of rough red cloth, with tight sleeves and a short skirt, displaying a pair of yellow worsted stockings and leather sandals, fastened by thongs above the ancle. Her face was coarse and bloated; but the expression of her eye was terrible. It hovered between the bright ferocious glare of a snake, and the glazed orb of an arrant sot. She scanned me closely; and I thought the old devil (she was a Spanish woman, and past forty,) was accurately appraising the value of all I had on.

"Well, señora patrona," said I, "what can I have for supper?"

"The señor has come at a bad time, for we have little or no provisions in our larder." (The larder of every Spanish inn has been in the same condition since the days of Cervantes and Gongora.) "For now this road between Malaga and Antequera is but little frequented after noon-day, owing to the terrible robberies and the four assassinations committed by Juan Roa, during the last Solano. Caramba! 't is very hard that we should suffer for him."

"What can I have, then?"

"A roasted galina, dressed with a few beans," said the patrona.

"And a glass of good aquadiente," added the host; "our Tierno has soured in the wine-skins."

"'T is poor fare this, for hungry men. I have said that I expect my friend's arrival momently."

The host gave a cold smile, and said, "We have had nothing ourselves, for a week past, but Indian corn and boiled garbanzos (beans); but the best we have is at the disposal of the señor caballero."

The inn was old and crazy; the wind came in at one cranny, and whistled out by another. The roof, walls, and floor of the large apartment in which we three were seated, consisted of a multitude of beams and boards, placed horizontally and diagonally, without skill and without regard to design or appearance. There was but one candle in the house (as the host assured me), and it was rapidly guttering down in the currents of air. The patrona transferred it from the lantern to an iron holder, and it was placed on the table to light the room and my supper.

An ostler, or nondescript servant, wearing fustian knee-breeches, without braces, with a muleteer's embroidered shirt, and having a yellow handkerchief tied round his head, spread a (not over-clean) cloth on the table; knives, forks, and covers were laid for two, with a cold fowl, a loaf of white bread, a dish of beans, garlic, and a bottle of aquadiente.

I observed this wild-looking waiter frequently glancing at my rifle, and the jewelled dirk that dangled at my waist-belt; I became suspicious of everything.

"You are well armed, señor," said he.

"It is natural; for arms are my profession," said I.

I looked at my watch: the hands indicated eleven o'clock! Two hours had elapsed since Hall and I had separated; still there was no appearance of him. Twenty times I opened the shutters of the unglazed windows, and listened intently; but the night wind that swept down the dark ravine in the Sierra, brought neither shout nor footstep; so I resolved to sup, go to bed, and trust to daylight for discovering Jack, if he did not arrive at the posada before morning.

I had just concluded supper, when the last remains of the last candle in this solitary inn, sank into its iron socket, and left us in darkness; at least with no other light than the red wavering glow that came from the hearth, where a few roots of pine and corkwood smouldered beside the brown puchero, in which the amiable patrona had boiled the beans for my repast.

"Here is a pretty piece of business!" said Martin Secco; "we have not another candle were it to light a blessed altar; and the señor Caballero must go to bed in the dark."

"Heed not that, señor patron," said I; "for I am a soldier, as you may see, and am used to discomfort."

"'T is well; for I am sure that the señor has experienced nothing but discomfort in our poor posada. When I am rich enough, señor, I hope to have an hotel in the Alameda; and then should the Caballero ever come to Malaga again, he will remember Martin Secco."

At this remark, I heard the patrona utter a low chuckling laugh; but whether at the prospect of the fine hotel, or the doubtful chances of my ever again visiting Malaga, I could not say.

"Now, señor patron," said I, rising and taking up my rifle, "I should like to reach the town betimes to-morrow; so show me to my chamber, and should my friend arrive, fail not to call me."