Though I might be in doubt as to what was his station, whether it was that of a lord or a mendicant, since his assemblance suggested that he partook of both these conditions, I had no doubt at all that he was not a Spanish gentleman--for where should you find a caballero of our most courteous nation who would so soil his manners as to treat a stranger with this degree of impudency? Yet there was a great air of possession about him as he sat his stool, as though every stick and rafter of the inn was his own private furniture, so that I almost felt that I was intruding within his castle. There was, again, that insolence in his looks as clearly implied that it was his habit to command a deal of consideration from the world; and as a lord is a lord in every land, whether he happen to be a Spaniard or a German Goth, I opened, like a skirmisher, in the lightest manner, not to provoke offence, for I trust that Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas has ever too much respect for his forebears to humiliate a man of birth. “I give the greeting of God to your excellency,” I began, uncloaking myself and bowing low, as became a hidalgo of my nation. The occupant of the stool made no sign that I had addressed him, except that he spat in the fire. “May it please you, sir--a thousand pardons,” said I; “but I have heard a tale of you from the keeper of this inn that never did consist with gallantry. And may I pray you to have it rectified, for the poor fellow is sorely afflicted in his understanding.” At this address the occupant of the stool took his left eye off the cooking-pot for the second time, and fixed it upon me slowly and mockingly, and said in a rude, foreign accent that was an offence to my ears, “Yes, my son, pray me by all means; or shrive me, or baptize me, or do with me just as you please. I have grown old in the service of virtue, yet perhaps I ought to mention that I have not so much as the price of a pot of small ale in my poke.” “By your leave, sir, you are upon some misapprehension,” said I. “It is not your money that I crave, but your civility.” “Civility, my son. Well, I dare say I can arrange for as much of that as you require.” “It is pleasing to know that, sir. But this innkeeper--unhappy man--does not appear to have partaken of it.” The occupant of the stool took my remonstrance in fairer part than there was reason to expect. Indeed he even abated his manners into some appearance of politeness. “You appear to judge shrewdly for one of your years, my young companion,” he said, in a voice that fell quite soft. “But if I must speak the truth, this innkeeper is a notorious villain; and if I am ever civil to a notorious villain, I hope Heaven will correct me.” “Even upon such a matter as that, sir,” I said gravely, “there may be two sorts of opinion. Even if this poor innkeeper is not so virtuous as he might be, it will not help him on the true path to be mulcted in his substance.”