After affording us shelter till we had supped, as soon as the sun began to sink behind the mountains every house in the place poured forth its inhabitants upon a little green. In the centre stood a group of high ash trees, under which the great majority seated themselves, notwithstanding the disagreeable odour of the cantharides which were buzzing about thickly amongst the branches; the rest took it in turns to dance to the music of a guitar, which was played by the young smuggler whose vocal powers I had already been made acquainted with. Never in court or drawing-room did I see more grace or more beauty than on that village green; while the awful masses of the mountains, stretching blue and vast behind, offered a strange grand contrast to the light figures of the gay ephemeral beings that were sporting like butterflies before me. The mingling of the two scenes, and the calm placidity which both tended to inspire, did not fail to find its way to my heart, and to soothe and quiet the anguish which had not yet left it. In the meanwhile, the musician joined his voice to the notes of his guitar, and sang one of their village songs. SONG. I. "Dance! dance! dance! Life so quick is past, Seize ye its minutes for joy as they fly: Existence' flowers so brief a space may last, 'Twere pity to see them but blossom and die. II. "Dance! dance! dance! On the roses tread, That swift-fleeting Time shall let fall ere he go; He's now in his spring, but full soon shall he shed On every dark ringlet his wintry snow. III. "Dance! dance! dance! Cheat the heavy hours, They're tyrants would bind us to Time's chariot fast; Weave then a chain of gay summer flowers, And make them our slaves while youth's reign shall last." He had scarcely ended, and was still continuing the air upon his guitar, when a horse's feet were heard clattering up over the stones of the village, and in a minute or two after, a young man rode up, dressed in a costume somewhat different from that of the villagers, but still decidedly Spanish. On his appearance, the dance instantly stopped, several voices crying, "It is Francisco from Lerida. He brings news of Fernandez! What news of Fernandez?" together with a variety of other exclamations and interrogatories, making a quantum of noise and confusion sufficient to prevent his answering any one distinctly for at least five minutes after his arrival. The horseman, however, seemed but little disposed to reply to any one, slowly dismounting from his horse with what appeared to me an air of assumed importance. "Ah! he is playing his old tricks," cried one of the merry boys of the village; "he wants to frighten us about Fernandez."