The wife of the latter seemed rather to fancy me, as she begged me to return that way, and if I knocked up the horses she would indeed be angry. She tried to be handsome, but a complaint in her eyes was a most formidable adversary.
Start, and in the course of the journey tell the guide he was more stupid than his mule. “What!” says he, “did you say I was more stupid than my mule?” “Yes,” said I, and he turned away and laughed as if he could not restrain it. We arrive at four o’clock at Aliseda, six long leagues from Albuquerque.
October 26.—Leave Aliseda for Arroyo del Puerco, a large good-looking town. Return to Aliseda, and then on to Zagala upon asses.
As the sun sets we get into the park of Zagala, thinly covered with large cork trees and under-spread with smooth pasture. Here, having the best animal, I, given up to my own thoughts, insensibly ran ahead of my servant and guide, but the road turning suddenly to the right and descending to the bed of the river, reminded me of the imprudence of parting with my servants and baggage, who might take another road. I therefore pulled up in the midst of the stream, and casting my eyes upward and around, beheld one of the most beautiful nights that ever etherealised the human mind. The woods were not breathed on, all was still; the half moon rode high in heaven, frequently passed over by the light blushing clouds with which the sky was chequered. The solemnity of the scene was such as is not to be described.
I had talked some time ago with a sceptic, and been bothered with his subtilties; how did they now all fly before the sublime soarings of my spirit at this moment! Does this airy transport tend to nothing, and must this mind with such an ardent curiosity to explore the heavens, and such a celestial gratitude for the refinement it feels in itself, perish with the body? Could I have made the sceptic take my feelings as the best argument I could offer, he had been soon converted.
A sceptic should by analogy be of a sordid mind, but this man was intelligent.
Having passed the river, we soon began to ascend through a thick wood to the castle of Zagala, crowning the very summit of a rock-gnarled mount.
When we were half up the hill my donkey started at the appearance of an animal half as big again as itself, which advanced with a majestic, deliberate step, and on going close up to it I found it was a beautiful red stag that very politely came and kissed my hand—beautiful, elegant creature.
On arriving at the gate of the old mouldering castle we thundered for entrance, but for some time all was still. At length we thought we heard the steps of some one dimly sounding through the echoes of the castle, and ere long a hoarse voice demanded, “Who’s there?” “An English officer with his servant and guide.” “What do you want?” “Shelter for the night.” The steps were then heard to retire, and all was still. Soon after, they were again heard approaching, and the voice again asked, “How many are you?” “Three.” At last the grating gate was slowly opened, and we beheld a snug village within, and at the end of the street a fine-looking hall door with lamps, etc.
They took us to this house, and going upstairs the steward of the estate of Zagala, belonging to the Marquis of Portachio, received me with great cordiality and politeness. I was comforted to find a most capital house with curtains, etc., the picture of cleanliness and convenience, but how much more delighted when his most beautiful wife entered the room, with long black mantilla, brilliant rolling eyes, Roman nose, sweet mouth, jet black hair in short graceful curls upon her neck, tall, polite, retired, conversable. Could not take my eyes off her during supper, and feared the administrator would cut my throat. There was an old priest who disputed with me concerning Popery. Adventures romantic at first they told, as they had just killed a large wolf, whose skin was brought in to show us. They then took me into a nice little ante-room with a clean-looking bed, where I slept delightfully.