I had just concluded supper, when the last remains of the last candle in this solitary inn, sank into its iron socket, and left us in darkness; at least with no other light than the red wavering glow that came from the hearth, where a few roots of pine and corkwood smouldered beside the brown puchero, in which the amiable patrona had boiled the beans for my repast.
"Here is a pretty piece of business!" said Martin Secco; "we have not another candle were it to light a blessed altar; and the señor Caballero must go to bed in the dark."
"Heed not that, señor patron," said I; "for I am a soldier, as you may see, and am used to discomfort."
"'T is well; for I am sure that the señor has experienced nothing but discomfort in our poor posada. When I am rich enough, señor, I hope to have an hotel in the Alameda; and then should the Caballero ever come to Malaga again, he will remember Martin Secco."
At this remark, I heard the patrona utter a low chuckling laugh; but whether at the prospect of the fine hotel, or the doubtful chances of my ever again visiting Malaga, I could not say.
"Now, señor patron," said I, rising and taking up my rifle, "I should like to reach the town betimes to-morrow; so show me to my chamber, and should my friend arrive, fail not to call me."
"Will you not leave your gun here?" suggested the host.
"Thank you—no," said I, while my undefined suspicions grew stronger within me. "Do you lead the way, señor, and I shall follow. Good night, señora patrona."
"Bueno noche, señor," said she, stirring up the embers; and we separated.
To follow Martin was perhaps the most unpleasant part that I had yet acted; for I had to grope my way after him along a dark passage, about forty feet long, at the end of which he ushered me into a room, where there was no other light than that given by the moon, which shone through a small window glazed with little panes of coarse glass. Here he bade me "Bueno noche;" and, after many apologies for my miserable accommodation, left me.