“No, Señor! we did not say that he was an Andalou. We said he was an Estremou, and the worst of his kind. He is eighteen years old, your worship, short-winded and galled.”
“I do not wish to sell my horse,” said I; “quite the contrary; I had rather buy than sell.”
“Your worship does not wish to sell your horse,” said the Gypsy. “Stay, your worship, we will give sixty dollars for your worship’s horse.”
“I would not sell him for two hundred and sixty. Meclis! Meclis! say no more. I know your Gypsy tricks. I will have no dealings with you.”
“Did I not hear your worship say that you wished to buy a horse?” said the Gypsy.
“I do not want to buy a horse,” said I; “if I need any thing, it is a pony to carry our baggage; but it is getting late. Antonio, pay the reckoning.”
“Stay, your worship, do not be in a hurry,” said the Gypsy: “I have got the very pony which will suit you.”
Without waiting for my answer, he hurried into the stable, from whence he presently returned, leading an animal by a halter. It was a pony of about thirteen hands high, of a dark red colour; it was very much galled all over, the marks of ropes and thongs being visible on its hide. The figure, however, was good, and there was an extraordinary brightness in its eye.
“There, your worship,” said the Gypsy; “there is the best pony in all Spain.”
“What do you mean by showing me this wretched creature?” said I.