It was now noon-day, and, ascending a rocky ledge that projects into the wide valley, already described as lying in front of the house, we obtained a splendid panoramic view of the whole wooded district of Sanona. We found, on gaining the summit, that the provident Damien had directed a muchacho to meet us there, with a mule-load of provender, which he was pleased to call “un petit peu de rafraichissement.” We were quite prepared to acknowledge our sense of his foresight and discretion in the most unequivocal manner; for the exertion of climbing the successive mountain-ridges, and forcing our way through the underwood, as well as the excitement of the sport, had given a keen edge to our appetites.
Whilst seated in a convivial circle, smoking our cigars at the conclusion of our repast, we observed that poor Alonzo—who, though a stoutly built, was a very sickly-looking man—appeared to be quite exhausted from the heat and fatigue of the day, and that poor old Luis looked from time to time on his son, as he lay full-length upon the ground, with a heart-rending expression of grief.
One of our party remarked to him, that Alonzo did not appear to be well, and suggested that he had better not exert himself further. Don Luis shook his head. “Alas! señor!” he replied, “my poor Alonzo is as well as ever he again will be. But do not suppose that he is a degenerate scion of the De Castros; nor even that I regret seeing him in his present state. No: much as I once wished to see the family name handed down to another generation—of which there is now no chance—I would rather, much rather, that he should have sacrificed his health—his life indeed—for his country, than that any vain wish of mine should be gratified.”
Our curiosity excited by the words, and yet more by the manner of the old man, we ventured, after some little preamble, to ask what had occasioned the change in his son that his speech implied.
“It is a long story, caballeros,” he answered; “but, as the sun is now too powerful to allow us to resume our sport, I will, if you feel disposed to listen to a garrulous old man, relate the circumstances that led to my son’s being reduced to the lamentable state in which you see him.” We contracted the circle round Don Luis, the Spaniards, apparently, quite as intent on hearing the thrice-told tale as ourselves; and Damien, though still busily occupied at his “rafraichissement,” also lending an attentive ear.
The fine old man was seated on a rock, elevated somewhat above the rest of the party, holding in his right hand his uncouth-looking fowling-piece, whilst the other rested on the head of a favourite dog, that came, seemingly, to beg his master to remonstrate with Damien for using his teeth to tear off the little flesh that remained on a ham-bone.
Don Luis, after patting the impatient favourite on the head and bidding him lie down, thus began his story.
CHAPTER IX.
LUIS DE CASTRO.
“Tiene este caso un no sé que de sombra de adventura de Caballeria."—Don Quijote.
I need not tell enlightened Englishmen—commenced Don Luis—that the name I bear is no common one. The Casería which you there see, and all the shady glens we here look down upon, were granted to the renowned De Castro, whose valour so materially aided the Catholic kings, of blessed memory, in the pious work of extirpating the vile followers of the Arabian Impostor from the soil of Spain; and the patrimony thus acquired by my ancestor’s sword has been handed down from generation to generation to me,—too likely, alas! to be the last of the race to inherit it.