“No, your worship; they hanged my poor son in error. But perchance, if I unload my breast of this misfortune, it may please the Virgin Mary to lessen my afflictions.” “If you are a wise man you will also burn a candle or two. But, innkeeper, I will enter this venta of yours and speak with your guest, whoever he may be. For myself, I don’t put much faith in the black arts.” I confess that our discussion of these unnatural affairs had provoked strange feelings. But I spoke as boldly as I could, and laid my hand on the hilt of my sword with so much determination that the poor wight of an innkeeper fell into a violent trembling. “Oh no, your worship,” he cried; “I would have you go upon your road. He is so prompt to violence that he will certainly slay you if you so much as show him your eyes.” “That is as may be,” said I, taking a tighter grip upon my sword. “Oh, your worship,” said the innkeeper, “I pray you use him tenderly. I beseech you be gentle of your discourse. He would pare the nails of the Cid. He fills the world with woes as easily as a she-ass fills a house with fleas.” “You must obey me, innkeeper,” I said sternly, but without anger I hope, for the state of the poor fellow’s mind had moved me to pity. “You must remember that a caballero of my province is afeared only of God.” The unlucky wight, finding that I was not to be gainsaid, led the way, with many misgivings, into his squalid house. There was only one apartment for the service of guests. It was a poor one enough, with hardly anything in it except the lice on the walls and three candles which burned dismally. Such a hovel was only fit for the entertainment of pigs, cows, and chickens; yet it was not its quality that first awoke my attention. Neither was it the extremely singular personage that was seated at the side of the fire. It was the delicious smell of cookery that filled the whole place. This proceeded out of a great seething pot that hung in the chimney. To one who had travelled all day nothing could have been more delectable. At its sight and odour my hunger began to protest fiercely, for my last piece of victual had been eaten at noon. Seated on a low stool, as near to the pot as he might venture without being scorched in the legs, I found the author of these grievances. His gaze was riveted upon this delicious kettle. His enormous limbs were outstretched across the hearth, a rare cup of liquor was beside his stool, and so earnestly was he gazing at the meat as it tossed and hissed in the cauldron that upon my entrance he did not stir, but, without so much as removing his chin from his hands, continued in his occupation with an air of approval and expectancy.