The drivers, we were told, were singing merrily, the bells were jangling, the passengers all smoking, chatting, and laughing, as they entered a defile in the hills, when suddenly the rocks and trees which overhung the rough path were found to be manned—
"Don Fabrique de Urquija!" was the cry, shots were fired—maladito! and the escort, which consisted of a sergeant and four dragoons of the Spanish army, turned their horses and fled at full speed, leaving the convoy to the mercy of the outlaws, who captured the rear calesso, cut its springs, shot the driver, and had retained it with all its contents and passengers. The other four had escaped, and came thundering down the narrow path to Castellar with all their passengers shouting with terror, the mules galloping, the bells jangling, and every vehicle plunging like a ship in a storm.
"Morte de Dios!" added the military personage, whom they called Don Joaquim, and from whom we had this account; "it was a narrow escape, for Urquija is a very Tartar—a blood-drinker! You belong to the British service, señores, I presume?"
"Yes," said I.
"To the garrison in Gibraltar, of course?"
"Of course; we have no other garrison in Spain."
"And you are on leave, señores?"
"Si, señor, on leave, and going to Seville," said I, conceiving that to tell our real object to this inquisitive officer might not be conducive to the cultivation of mutual good-will.
"I also am an officer," said he, bowing; "and belong to the Portuguese service—Major in the ancient Regiment of St. Anthony."
"But you are a Spaniard," said I.