At one of the stations, three husky young men climbed into the coach. Each wore a shawl, a broad-brimmed hat, a black sash, and a huge silver chain across his vest. They never ceased for an instant talking about mills, horses, women, gambling, and bulls.
“Those gentlemen,” asked the Frenchman in an undertone, as he leaned over to Quentin, “What are they—toreadors?”
“No,—rich folk from hereabouts.”
“Hidalgos, eh?”
“Pst! You shall see.”
“They are talking a lot about gambling. One gambles a great deal in Andalusia, doesn’t one?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard some one say, that once a hidalgo was riding along on horseback, when he met a beggar. The horseman tossed him a silver coin, but the beggar, not wishing to accept it drew a pack of cards from among his rags and proposed a game to the hidalgo. He won the horse.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Quentin boisterously.
“But isn’t it true?” asked the Frenchman somewhat piqued.