"Not at all, señores—the greensward, the shadow of those trees, and the waters of this stream, flowing from yonder sierra, belong to us all in common. Sit down, señores, and halter your horses, as you see I have haltered mine. You belong to the Gibraltar garrison, I presume—right—you are Inglesos."
"No, Brittanicos," said I, with a smile.
"And whither go ye?"
"To Seville."
"Ah, would I were going with you: it is a place of joy and merriment, Seville. The sun shines on it once every day of the year; yet I go there but seldom. Allow me to make you each a cigarillo."
"With pleasure."
To have declined would have been an affront as great as to refuse a proffered snuff-mull in the country of the clans. Our Spaniard produced one of those little books of soft blank paper (almost the only volumes used in Spain), and tore out three leaves; he then took tobacco from his silk pouch and made up three little cigars very neatly and adroitly; but twice during the operation I detected his stealthy eyes scanning us from under his bushy eyebrows.
My little box of patent lights excited his wonder and admiration, as he was about to exert his patience by having recourse to the antiquated flint and steel. Then Jack Slingsby produced his travelling flask; I brought forth mine, and the Spaniard had a capacious bota of wine, a drinking cup of leather, a piece of bacallao and biscuits; and we were just proceeding to lunch, when his Andalusian jennet pricked up its ears and neighed uneasily.
"Maldito!" said our companion, as a scowl came over his visage and his hand fell mechanically on the lock of his gun; "some one approaches."
"An old woman on a donkey, and nothing more," said Slingsby, carelessly; "amigo mio, you look as much alarmed as if you expected the terrible Fabrique de Urquija, or Juan Roa of Antequera."