"You! and when was this, my little fellow?" said Jack Hall.
"On the night old Barradas, the muleteer, was murdered."
The Spaniard with the patch knit his brows.
"Caramba!" said he; "ah! I remember that."
"Tell us about this murder," said Hall.
"You must know, señors," said Pedrillo, "that at the foot of the Sierra de Mija, about five miles from this, there stands a wayside inn, called La Posada del Cavallo, for the keeper, Martin Secco, had a great horse painted on his signboard. This man is the uncle of Juan Roa, or of Antequera. He has a wife, and had two daughters. The place is lonely; and it often happens, that those who put up there for the night forget the right path; for they are lost among the mountains, or fall into the sand-pits—at least, they are seldom heard of after. You understand, señors?"
The Spaniard with the patch smiled grimly, and played with his knife.
"One night last year, I guided Pedro Barradas, the Cordovan muleteer, to the posada, when it was dark as pitch. Pedro was very old, and half blind, and had never been that way before. A storm came on, and he desired me to remain with him, saying he would pay me well; old Barradas was rich; he had made money in the war of independence, and in the last civil war between the Carlists and Christines; and had given three silver images to the church of his native puebla in Jaen.
"We supped on baccallao, raisins, and plain bread, for the season was Lent. While we were at supper, in the common hall of the posada, I heard the rain pattering on the wooden shutters (there is not a glass window in the house); I heard the thunder grumbling among the hills, and the wind howling as it swept over the fields and vineyards of the Vega. It was a lonely place for a poor boy who had neither father nor mother, señors; but, then, I was not worth killing, though many fears flitted through my mind; for Martin's wife—an ugly and wicked-looking Basque provincial—put some very alarming questions to old Pedro Barradas. She told him that the neighbourhood was infested by bandidos and contrabandistas; and asked if he was a heavy sleeper.
"'No,' said Barradas, 'in the war against Joseph Buonaparte I learned the art of sleeping lightly.'