Thus speaking, he gave spurs to his horse, rode through the thick wood, and disappeared, light as the wind, in the direction of a lonely hostelry, which could scarcely be distinguished on the distant horizon. He paid no attention to the voices of his new comrades, who called after him, cautioning him of the risk he ran of falling into the hands of a patrol of the Salvadores,[2] bodies of armed horsemen who, by command of the king, requested to give it by the Count of Carrion and other grandees, wandered through that district for the purpose of protecting travellers from the attacks of the highwaymen.
We know not how Martin arranged matters with the innkeeper, but two hours had scarcely passed when he returned, bringing, thrown across his saddle-bow, a large leather wine-bag, which contained fully twenty gallons, according to our modern measures. Shouts of joy and loud applause received him on his return.
"He is a good comrade, and will be the pride of the band of the Raposo."
"What an aroma that wine has! It is three years old, at least."
"I'd like to have some of those Moorish dogs here, to see if they would turn up their noses at that gift of God."
"The monks of Sahagun never taste better."
"Thunder and lightning, what a night we'll have with it!"
"I'd turn Moor at once if Mahomet were only as good as it is."
"The innkeeper was a heretic, and kept it without baptizing it."