This tale, though not addressed to him, was evidently intended for the ears of a monk of the same mendicant order, who, pale and trembling, sat in one corner of the chimney place, listening, with open-mouthed attention, to every word the arrieros said; at the same time counting his beads without intermission, and crossing himself devoutly at the relation of each fresh act of barbarity practised on his unfortunate brother.
From the significant glances that from time to time passed between the narrators,—for several of the assembled group came forward to vouch for the truth of the story,—and latterly between them and ourselves, when they saw we were aware of the drift of their joke; it was evidently all fiction; but the tale was told with such minute details, and its veracity maintained by so many asseverations, that any one, not seeing the by-play, might easily, like the unhappy monk, have been made the victim of the hoax.
“Caramba!” at length exclaimed the Alcalde mayor[55] of Gaucin, who occupied one corner of the fireplace—“Caramba! this is a strange story! and it is most extraordinary, that in my official capacity”—this was said with a certain magisterial air—“I should not have been made acquainted with it. Pray tell me; when did this happen? and what became of the pious man?”—“With respect to the time,” said another muleteer, taking up the story, “I cannot precisely inform you; but that matters little; be satisfied that, in the narration of the story, no se salga un punto de la verdad.[56] As for the friar, he crawled to the nearest village, driving before him all the cattle he encountered on the road, like mad things—asses braying—dogs barking; and cows with their tails in the air as erect as palm trees. The inhabitants took the alarm; and, snatching up their niños and rosarios, scampered off without listening to what the Padre was crying:—indeed the louder he hallooed to them to stop, the faster they ran; for they all thought it was the devil that was at their heels.”—“And I believe think so to this day,” joined in another arriero, taking his cigar from his mouth, and rolling forth a long cloud of smoke—“for at last, the village priest, seizing upon a crucifix in one hand, and an escopeta[57] in the other, and repeating a heap of Ave Marias, Pater nostres, and credos, went out to meet the beast. On getting within gunshot, he presented the escopeta (for I saw it myself, though he said afterwards it was the crucifix,) upon which the figure fell prostrate on the ground. So then the Cura went up to it, and, after a few minutes, beckoned the people forward, and told them how he had cast a devil out of a good Capuchin, and showed the skin and horns he had kept as trophies. The skin was cut up and sold to the bystanders for charms against the evil one; and the friar was placed on an ass, and conveyed to the Cura’s dwelling, where he remained until his feet were healed. He then returned to his convent, telling every body that he had been assailed by devils in the form of contrabandistas, and that a miracle had been wrought in his favour.”
Here all crossed themselves—arrieros inclusive.
Others of the muleteers were bandying compliments with the crabbed old landlady; one swearing that her wine was as sweet as her face; another that her breath was more savoury than a chorizo;[58] a third that his chocolate was less clear than her complexion: all which jokes she bore with stoical indifference, returning generally, however, a Rowland for an Oliver.
At length our supper was announced, and we betook ourselves to the loft, where we found four chairs and a low table had been added to the furniture. Our meal consisted of a stewed fowl, that had been pulled down from the roost before our eyes, not an hour before; an omelet abounding in onion and garlic; and, what we found far more palatable, ham and bread and butter, which we had taken care to come provided with.
I must not, however, omit to do justice to the Gaucin wine, which is excellent, and has much the flavour of a sound Niersteiner. The best is grown on the side of the Hacho, or peaked mountain above the town.
All the wine of the Serrania is good, when not flavoured with aniseed; but it must be “drunk on the premises;” for the vile habit of carrying it in pig-skins is sure to give it some bad taste—either of the skin itself, if new, or of its preceding contents, (probably aniseed brandy) if old. I tried in vain to get some pure Guacin wine conveyed to Gibraltar, but it had always a “smack” of the unclean animal’s skin.
CHAPTER IV.
JOURNEY TO RONDA CONTINUED—A WORD ON THE PASSPORT AND BILL OF HEALTH NUISANCES, AND SPANISH CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICERS—ROMANTIC SCENERY—SPLENDID VIEW—BENADALID—ATAJATE—FIRST VIEW OF THE VALE OF RONDA—A DISSERTATION ON ADVENTURES, TO MAKE UP FOR THEIR ABSENCE—LUDICROUS INSTANCE OF THE EFFECTS OF PUTTING THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.