“The eldest is head curate to our pueblo,” said she; “the other is brother to my husband. Pobrecito! he was a friar in our convent before it was shut up and the brethren driven forth.”
We returned to the door. “I suppose, gentlemen,” said the curate, “that you are Catalans. Do you bring any news from that kingdom?”
“Why do you suppose we are Catalans?” I demanded.
“Because I heard you this moment conversing in that language.”
“I bring no news from Catalonia,” said I. “I believe, however, that the greater part of that principality is in the hands of the Carlists.”
“Ahem, brother Pedro! This gentleman says that the greater part of Catalonia is in the hands of the royalists. Pray, sir, where may Don Carlos be at present with his army?”
“He may be coming down the road this moment,” said I, “for what I know;” and, stepping out, I looked up the way.
The two figures were at my side in a moment; Antonio followed, and we all four looked intently up the road.
“Do you see anything?” said I at last to Antonio.
“Non, mon maitre.”