'And what are you doing here?' he asked.
'Riding to Ecija.'
'Ah, you're a commercial traveller,' he cried, with fine scorn. 'You foreigners bleed the country of all its money. You and the government!'
'Rogues and vagabonds!' muttered the old woman.
Notwithstanding, the farmer with much condescension accepted one of my cigars, and made me drink with him a glass of aguardiente.
We went off together. The mare he rode was really magnificent, rather large, holding her head beautifully, with a tail that almost swept the ground. She carried as if it were nothing the heavy Spanish saddle, covered with a white sheep-skin, its high triangular pommel of polished wood. Our ways, however, quickly diverged. I inquired again how far it was to the nearest village.
'Eh!' said the farmer, with a vague gesture. 'Two leagues. Three leagues. Quien sabe? Who knows? Adios!'
He put the spurs to his mare and galloped down a bridle-track. I, whom no fair maiden awaited, trotted on soberly.
XXVIII
By the Road—II