On reaching the General's quarters, I thought it best not to report myself to his Excellency, till I had seen Captain Gabion again. While waiting in the street, I noticed a small shop, the open window of which exhibited not only a choice assortment of straw cigars, but bread, bacon, sausages, eggs, articles all equally attractive to travellers who had not dined. Reminded, by the sight, that this was precisely my own condition, I stepped in; hoping to find something that might support exhausted nature, during the awful interval that seemed likely to intervene, ere we could halt for the night, and think about cooking. The eggs, white, large, and pellucid, claimed a trial; and the yolk of the first I cracked went down whole like an oyster, with such a delicious gulp, that I was about to attack a second, when I was interrupted by a voice from the back of the shop, "Nó, nó, señor." Looking in that direction, I perceived six or eight persons crouching round a small fire on the hearth. On walking towards them, I found my two Capatazes, and a party of their muleteers, all on a broad grin at my recent exploit in egg-sucking. The Spanish Capataz arose; politely observed that roast eggs are better than raw; and, with equal politeness taking that which I held in my hand, cracked it at one end, and stuck it upright in the hot embers. Fully acquiescing in this arrangement, and determined to carry it out, I was returning to the counter for another egg; but was anticipated by the Capataz, who selected a couple, observing that he had great knowledge in choosing eggs. These he set in the embers, by the side of the former, first opening a safety-valve in each. Never having known, before, how to roast an egg, I did not regret this lesson in the art of extempore cookery. And I beg to state that a roast egg--_so_ roasted, _i. e._ done slowly in the embers, "ovum ad prunas cocked 'em" (you see, the Romans also set them upright)--not only is altogether a different sort of thing from a boiled egg, but beats it to sticks: especially if washed down, as mine were on the present occasion, with a cup or two of good sound Spanish wine out of a leathern bag. For the Capataz, insisting that eating without drinking was bad for the digestion, transferred the wine from the leather to the horn, with an air of benignity that was perfectly irresistible. In short, he would take no denial. I was also glad of this little rencontre in the shop, for another reason--because it tended to establish amicable relations between me and the muleteers, which was just what I wanted. Having chatted a few minutes with my polite entertainers, I thanked them for their _cortesia_, and walked towards the counter, to settle for the eggs. How now? There's nothing to settle! The eggs are paid for! This was a touch of high Spanish breeding, that quite took me by surprise--I demurred. The big jolly old Spaniard, though, stepped forward with his