"You mistake me. I was thinking how awkward it would be for us if the Himalaya was to come round during our absence; and if on our return we should find the whole regiment embarked and steaming away for the Crimea."
"Awkward! I should think so, rather; but it is not likely they can decamp in such a hurry. After all we heard last night about the restless habits of the good people in these mountains, and their vague or peculiar ideas regarding property, together with the eccentricities of this Don Fabrique, do we not run a little risk in proceeding without an escort?"
"There is risk, certainly; but our return is not to be thought of till the duty is done."
"Of course not—what would the regiment say?"
"And what should we think of ourselves?"
"We are, I hope, a match for any six Spaniards, with our swords and revolvers, in fighting; and with these good nags under us I should think we are more than a match for them in flying. But the noon is becoming so hot that I propose we should halt under that grove of cork-trees and there take a siesta."
We halted accordingly at the base of a steep mountain chain, between the cleft peaks of which a noonday-flood of yellow light was gushing. Sterile, abrupt, and bare above us rose the ridgy rocks: the little valley at the base was teeming with verdure and fertility, but it was silent and solitary, for not a sound was heard save the murmur of a stream which bubbled from a fissure in a vine-covered cliff. It meandered between meadows of aromatic plants, and sought deep pools over which the oleander and the bay threw their branches, and the cool shady thickets of the dark wood of olive and cork-trees.
Just where we dismounted, we found a personage lounging on the grass. He was smoking a cigar, and had a long gun beside him. Without rising for a minute nearly, he scrutinised us and our horses with marked curiosity. His costume was somewhat gay, being in the highest style of the bull-ring, or that of a majo or dandified Spanish ladrone, whose free aspect and gallant air make him the admiration of the dark-eyed paisanas and the envy of their more peaceful male relatives; for the majo is the bravo of our own time.
This personage wore an ample brown cloak, which hung loosely about his shoulders, a black velvet sombrero, with a large tuft of black plush on one side thereof, and under its deep rim his coal-black hair fell in heavy locks, and his flashing eyes watched all our motions, with an indescribable expression of stealth and suspicion. A long knife and a pair of brass-butted pistols were in his gaudy sash; he wore leathern gaiters, and was playing with the blade of a navaja, or clasp-knife, about ten inches long—a deadly instrument, which the Spaniard is never without, for therewith he cuts his 'carne' and bread, or his bacallao in Lent, slices his melon in summer, and slashes the face of any person with whom he may chance to differ in opinion. Indeed, the visage of this lounger bore the very unmistakable mark of a long slash which had once laid it open from eye to chin. Beside him stood a beautiful Andalusian jennet, high of head, and bold in chest; its gaily-fringed bridle was thrown over the branch of an olive tree, and it was accoutred with a high-peaked saddle of antique form, covered by a piece of white sheepskin, which was spread also over a pair of holsters.
"Buenos dias, señor," said I; "a good morning—I fear we are disturbing you."