All topics of intimidation being now exhausted, our muleteer, with the best grace he could, professed himself ready to comply with our wishes.
The hire demanded for the mules was five francs per day each, exclusive of their keep; and their return journey was to be paid for at the same rate. The latter part of the demand was an imposition, but we had only “Hobson's choice,” and made no difficulties.
When would it be our pleasure to depart? As early in the afternoon as possible. “It would be late;” and a last effort was made to induce us to remain at the hotel till the next morning, but we were inexorable.
“Would there be time for us to reach the first village on the road before dark?”—“We might.”—“Then we will go. Our baggage will be ready by three o'clock. Be punctual.”
We disliked the man, and determined to discharge him at Corte unless things turned out better than we expected. As it happened, we were under his convoy for a much shorter space. We found the Sard cavallante, a much finer race, trudging on foot through all the roughest part of the tracks, and perching themselves at the top of a much heavier load of baggage on the pack-horse, when they were tired of walking.
It was a strange “turn out,” that, by unusual exertions, appeared at the door within an hour of the time appointed. The mules were no bigger than donkeys.
“Queste bestie non sono muli; sono dei asini.”
It was vexatious; but we laughed too much to be seriously angry; the muleteer, too, deprecating our wrath by assuring us that his mules had first-rate qualities for scrambling up and down precipices. So we took it all in good part, and, more amused than annoyed, assisted in contriving to adjust the girths of the English saddles to the poor beasts' wizened sides; and then, declining a march through Coventry with such a cavalcade, walked forward, leaving the guide to load the baggage and follow with the mules.