“Yes, he speaks well,” said the bulky Alavese; “there is no denying it.”
“I never heard any one speak better,” cried the blacksmith, starting up from a stool on which he was seated. “Vaya! he is a big man and a fair complexioned, like myself. I like him, and have a horse that will just suit him; one that is the flower of Spain, and is eight inches above the mark.”
I then, with another bow, presented my passport to the alcalde, who, with a gentle motion of his hand, appeared to decline taking it, at the same time saying, “It is not necessary.” “Oh, not at all,” exclaimed the surgeon. “The housekeepers of Villa Seca know how to comport themselves with formality,” observed the blacksmith. “They would be very loth to harbour any suspicion against a cavalier so courteous and well spoken.” Knowing, however, that this refusal amounted to nothing, and that it merely formed part of a polite ceremonial, I proffered the passport a second time, whereupon it was instantly taken, and in a moment the eyes of all present were bent upon it with intense curiosity. It was examined from top to bottom, and turned round repeatedly, and though it is not probable that an individual present understood a word of it, it being written in French, it gave nevertheless universal satisfaction; and when the alcalde, carefully folding it up, returned it to me, they all observed that they had never seen a better passport in their lives, or one which spake in higher terms of the bearer.
Who was it said that “Cervantes sneered Spain’s chivalry away”? [190] I know not; and the author of such a line scarcely deserves to be remembered. How the rage for scribbling tempts people at the present day to write about lands and nations of which they know nothing, or worse than nothing! Vaya! It is not from having seen a bull-fight at Seville or Madrid, or having spent a handful of ounces at a posada in either of those places, kept perhaps by a Genoese or a Frenchman, that you are competent to write about such a people as the Spaniards, and to tell the world how they think, how they speak, and how they act. Spain’s chivalry sneered away! Why, there is every probability that the great body of the Spanish nation speak, think, and live precisely as their forefathers did six centuries ago.
In the evening the blacksmith, or, as he would be called in Spanish, El Herrador, made his appearance at the door of Lopez on horseback. “Vamos, Don Jorge,” he shouted. “Come with me, if your worship is disposed for a ride. I am going to bathe my horse in the Tagus, by the bridge of Azeca.” I instantly saddled my jaca Cordovesa, and joining him, we rode out of the village, directing our course across the plain towards the river. “Did you ever see such a horse as this of mine, Don Jorge?” he demanded. “Is he not a jewel—an alhaja?” And in truth the horse was a noble and gallant creature, in height at least sixteen hands, broad-chested, but of clean and elegant limbs. His neck was superbly arched, and his head towered on high like that of a swan. In colour he was a bright chestnut, save his flowing mane and tail, which were almost black. I expressed my admiration; whereupon the herrador, in high spirits, pressed his heels to the creature’s sides, and flinging the bridle on its neck, speeded over the plain with prodigious swiftness, shouting the old Spanish cry, Cierra! I attempted to keep up with him, but had not a chance. “I call him the flower of Spain,” said the herrador, rejoining me. “Purchase him, Don Jorge; his price is but three thousand reals. [192] I would not sell him for double that sum, but the Carlist thieves have their eyes upon him, and I am apprehensive that they will some day make a dash across the river and break into Villa Seca, all to get possession of my horse, ‘The Flower of Spain.’”
It may be as well to observe here, that, within a month from this period, my friend the herrador, not being able to find a regular purchaser for his steed, entered into negociations with the aforesaid thieves respecting him, and finally disposed of the animal to their leader, receiving not the three thousand reals he demanded, but an entire herd of horned cattle, probably driven from the plains of La Mancha. For this transaction, which was neither more nor less than high treason, he was cast into the prison of Toledo, where, however, he did not continue long; for during a short visit to Villa Seca, which I made in the spring of the following year, I found him alcalde of that “republic.”
We arrived at the bridge of Azeca, which is about half a league from Villa Seca: close beside it is a large water-mill, standing upon a dam which crosses the river. Dismounting from his steed, the herrador proceeded to divest it of the saddle, then causing it to enter the mill-pool, he led it by means of a cord to a particular spot, where the water reached halfway up its neck, then fastening the cord to a post on the bank, he left the animal standing in the pool. I thought I could do no better than follow his example; and, accordingly, procuring a rope from the mill, I led my own horse into the water. “It will refresh their blood, Don Jorge,”, said the herrador; “let us leave them there for an hour, whilst we go and divert ourselves.”
Near the bridge, on the side of the river on which we were, was a kind of guard-house, where were three carbineers of the revenue, who collected the tolls of the bridge. We entered into conversation with them: “Is not this a dangerous position of yours,” said I to one of them, who was a Catalan, “close beside the factious country? Surely it would not be difficult for a body of the Carlinos or bandits to dash across the bridge and make prisoners of you all.”
“It would be easy enough at any moment, cavalier,” replied the Catalan; “we are, however, all in the hands of God, and he has preserved us hitherto, and perhaps still will. True it is that one of our number, for there were four of us originally, fell the other day into the hands of the canaille. He had wandered across the bridge amongst the thickets with his gun in search of a hare or rabbit, when three or four of them fell upon him and put him to death in a manner too horrible to relate. But patience! every man who lives must die. I shall not sleep the worse to-night because I may chance to be hacked by the knives of these malvados to-morrow. Cavalier, I am from Barcelona, and have seen there mariners of your nation; this is not so good a country as Barcelona. Paciencia! Cavalier, if you will step into our house, I will give you a glass of water; we have some that is cool, for we dug a deep hole in the earth and buried there our pitcher; it is cool, as I told you, but the water of Castile is not like that of Catalonia.”
The moon had arisen when we mounted our horses to return to the village, and the rays of the beauteous luminary danced merrily on the rushing waters of the Tagus, silvered the plain over which we were passing, and bathed in a flood of brightness the bold sides of the calcareous hill of Villaluenga and the antique ruins which crowned its brow. “Why is that the Castle of Villaluenga?” I demanded.