"He laughs at us," whispered Ernest in French. The conversation with the muleteer had been, thus far, carried on in Spanish—which Ernest spoke fairly enough. But the observation he thoughtlessly uttered in French seemed to excite the peasant's attention.
"Do you speak English?" asked Ernest.
"Yes," was the reply, in English. "Do you?"
"Me English? ab course. Speak well English," replied Ernest, in the true Gallic-idiom. Then relapsing into the more familiar tongue, he added, "But in Spain I speak Spanish."
By this time the trio had arrived within view of a large castellated building, whose ancient towers, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, rose majestically from the midst of groves of dark cypress and myrtle which surrounded it.
The muleteer stopped. "There, señores," he said, "stands the castle of the Conde. Half-a-mile further on lies the town of R——, to which, señores," he added, with a sarcastic smile, "you can proceed, should you not find it convenient to remain at the Castello. And now, I presume, as I have guided you so far right, you will suffer me to resume my own direction."
"Yes, as there seems no possibility of making any more mistakes on our way, you are free," replied the gravest of the two. "But stop one moment yet, amigo," and he pointed to a cross-road which, a little further on, diverged from the camino real, "where does that lead to?"
"Amigo!" muttered the man between his teeth, "say enemigo rather!"
"An answer to my question, villano," said the young Frenchman, haughtily—while his hand instinctively groped for the hilt of his sword.
"To R——," replied the man, as he turned silently and sullenly to retrace his steps.