Before we go any further, though, I must let you into the use of that magical word “_árre_,” which, on the present occasion, effected so much in our favour. It is the word used by drivers to their beasts, to set them off, or increase their speed. Please to pronounce it with a lengthened rattling of the _r_—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re. Only remember this: pronounce it ever so correctly, you yourself can never do anything with it: for, if twenty persons sing out ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re, neither horse, mule, nor donkey will move the faster, till they hear the ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re of their own driver. This they distinguish among a hundred, and bolt forthwith. The knowledge of this singular fact in animal psychology tends greatly to enliven an Almada or Cintra donkey-party. Upon an occasion of this kind, my friend John G—, being the longest fellow of the party, thought fit to appropriate the tallest donkey. This was deemed a usurpation, and, as such, meriting castigation. A hint was therefore given to the driver of his (John’s) donkey. John was suffered to get one foot quietly into the stirrup; but, before he had got the other over the Albarda, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re was heard behind; away went the donkey through the village of Almada; and away went John, one hand holding by the Albarda, the other by an ear—one toe in the stirrup, the other now hopping along the ground, now describing circles aloft, in vain attempts to get across. John, how unjustly I need not say, imputes the Almada exhibition to my contrivance, and bides his time. Presently we enter a sandy lane—John warns me I shall be in the dust ere we get out of it—advises to take feet out of stirrups. Advice followed, in defiance. Again the cry is heard, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re; but now in a different key. This time, it is my driver. Donkey bolts—away we go—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re is heard once more—donkey can gallop no faster, so begins to kick. I stoop forward—hug him round the neck; both donkey and rider are soon rolling in the dust. “Now,” says John, as he trots exulting by, “you and I are quits.” “Yes,” says Frank Woodbridge, passing at a canter; “one Johnny has avenged the other.” _Mem._—As, in an English donkey-race, no one rides his own donkey, and the donkey last in wins; so, in those Almada donkey-parties, each paid another man’s driver, no man paid his own. That driver got most whose donkey spilt his rider oftenest. To proceed. All our party having passed the bridge, I was viewing with some satisfaction the train of mules, as they walked off from the river towards the hamlet, cheerily switching their tails—the animals’ usual practice after accomplishing any extraordinary _tour de force_—when I noticed, not far from the bridge-head, in a long military frock-coat, quietly eyeing me with folded arms, a stately officer of the engineers. Who, do you think?—who, but my fellow-passenger from England a year before, Captain Gabion? We exchanged greetings with mutual cordiality.