We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall.It was a small village containing about thirty houses, and intersected by a rivulet, or as it is called a regata.On its banks women and maidens were washing their linen and singing couplets; the church stood lone and solitary on the farther side.We inquired for the posada, and were shown a cottage differing nothing from the rest in general appearance.We called at the door in vain, as it is not the custom of Castile for the people of these halting places to go out to welcome their visitors: at last we dismounted and entered the house, demanding of a sullen-looking woman where we were to place the horses.She said there was a stable within the house, but we could not put the animals there as it contained malos machos (SAVAGE MULES)belonging to two travellers who would certainly fight with our horses, and then there would be a funcion, which would tear the house down.She then pointed to an outhouse across the way, saying that we could stable them there.We entered this place, which we found full of filth and swine, with a door without a lock.I thought of the fate of the cura's mule, and was unwilling to trust the horses in such a place, abandoning them to the mercy of any robber in the neighbourhood.I therefore entered the house, and said resolutely, that I was determined to place them in the stable.Two men were squatted on the ground, with an immense bowl of stewed hare before them, on which they were supping; these were the travelling merchants, the masters of the mutes.I passed on to the stable, one of the men saying softly, "Yes, yes, go in and see what will befall." I had no sooner entered the stable than I heard a horrid discordant cry, something between a bray and a yell, and the largest of the machos, tearing his head from the manger to which he was fastened, his eyes shooting flames, and breathing a whirlwind from his nostrils, flung himself on my stallion.
The horse, as savage as himself, reared on his hind legs, and after the fashion of an English pugilist, repaid the other with a pat on the forehead, which nearly felled him.A combat instantly ensued, and I thought that the words of the sullen woman would be verified by the house being torn to pieces.It ended by my seizing the mute by the halter, at the risk of my limbs, and hanging upon him with all my weight, whilst Antonio, with much difficulty, removed the horse.The man who had been standing at the entrance now came forward, saying, "This would not have happened if you had taken good advice." Upon my stating to him the unreasonableness of expecting that I would risk horses in a place where they would probably be stolen before the morning, he replied, "True, true, you have perhaps done right." He then refastened his macho, adding for additional security a piece of whipcord, which he said rendered escape impossible.
After supper I roamed about the village.I addressed two or three labourers whom I found standing at their doors; they appeared, however, exceedingly reserved, and with a gruff "BUENAS NOCHES" turned into their houses without inviting me to enter.I at last found my way to the church porch, where Icontinued some time in meditation.At last I bethought myself of retiring to rest; before departing, however, I took out and affixed to the porch of the church an advertisement to the effect that the New Testament was to be purchased at Salamanca.
On returning to the house, I found the two travelling merchants enjoying profound slumber on various mantas or mule-cloths stretched on the floor."You are a French merchant, I suppose, Caballero," said a man, who it seemed was the master of the house, and whom I had not before seen."You are a French merchant, I suppose, and are on the way to the fair of Medina.""I am neither Frenchman nor merchant," I replied, "and though Ipurpose passing through Medina, it is not with the view of attending the fair." "Then you are one of the Irish Christians from Salamanca, Caballero," said the man; "I hear you come from that town." "Why do you call them IRISH CHRISTIANS?" Ireplied."Are there pagans in their country?" "We call them Christians," said the man, "to distinguish them from the Irish English, who are worse than pagans, who are Jews and heretics."I made no answer, but passed on to the room which had been prepared for me, and from which, the door being ajar, I heard the following conversation passing between the innkeeper and his wife:-INNKEEPER.- Muger, it appears to me that we have evil guests in the house.
WIFE.- You mean the last comers, the Caballero and his servant.Yes, I never saw worse countenances in my life.
INNKEEPER.- I do not like the servant, and still less the master.He has neither formality nor politeness: he tells me that he is not French, and when I spoke to him of the Irish Christians, he did not seem to belong to them.I more than suspect that he is a heretic or a Jew at least.
WIFE.- Perhaps they are both.Maria Santissima! what shall we do to purify the house when they are gone?
INNKEEPER.- O, as for that matter, we must of course charge it in the cuenta.
I slept soundly, and rather late in the morning arose and breakfasted, and paid the bill, in which, by its extravagance, I found the purification had not been forgotten.The travelling merchants had departed at daybreak.We now led forth the horses, and mounted; there were several people at the door staring at us."What is the meaning of this?" said I to Antonio.
"It is whispered that we are no Christians," said Antonio; "they have come to cross themselves at our departure."In effect, the moment that we rode forward a dozen hands at least were busied in this evil-averting ceremony.Antonio instantly turned and crossed himself in the Greek fashion, -much more complex and difficult than the Catholic.
"MIRAD QUE SANTIGUO! QUE SANTIGUO DE LOS DEMONIOS!" *exclaimed many voices, whilst for fear of consequences we hastened away.
