“Behold,” I said to myself, “all that remains of the population of the ancient Munda Bœtica! O Cæsar! O Sextus Pompey! how surprised you would be, should you return to earth!”
At sight of my companion, the old woman uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Ah! Señor Don José!” she cried.
Don José frowned and raised his hand with an authoritative gesture which instantly silenced the old woman. I turned to my guide, and with an imperceptible sign gave him to understand that there was nothing that he could tell me concerning the man with whom I was about to pass the night.
The supper was better than I anticipated. On a small table about a foot high we were served with an aged rooster, fricasseed with rice and an abundance of peppers; then with peppers in oil; and lastly with gaspacho, a sort of pepper salad. Three dishes thus highly seasoned compelled us to have frequent recourse to a skin of Montilla wine, which was delicious. After we had eaten, happening to spy a mandolin hanging on the wall,—there are mandolins everywhere in Spain,—I asked the little girl who waited on us if she knew how to play it.
“No,” she replied, “but Don José plays it so well!”
“Be good enough,” I said to him, “to sing me something; I am passionately fond of your national music.”
“I can refuse no request of such a gallant gentleman, who gives me such excellent cigars,” said Don José, good-naturedly.
And, having asked for the mandolin, he sang to his own accompaniment. His voice was rough, but very agreeable, the tune melancholy and weird; as for the words, I did not understand a syllable.
“If I am not mistaken,” I said, “that is not a Spanish air. It resembles the zorzicos which I have heard in the Provinces,[2] and the words must be Basque.”