I was now permitted to observe more clearly the beauties of nature, for all the fair provinces through which we passed were strange to me. And this I did the more particularly, I think, since at the many reflections I was moved to make upon the sweet qualities of the hills and valley and the streams and meadows by which we passed, Sir Richard Pendragon took upon himself to deride continually that which he called “my peninsularity”; and though admitting “that the scene was not amiss, considering that it was set in a dry climate, it compared very poorly with the honest woodland pastures in the vicinity of Wapping, which was near to London City.” When we drew near to that most noble chain of mountains which in these parts is called the Pyrenees, and whose serious magnificence, which transcended all that my mind had ever conceived of our most wonderful country, was spread before my gaze, I turned to my foreign companion with a sense of triumph that I could not restrain. “I will allow your country to be a fair place, worshipful Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said, “but if it has aught to compare with these tall mountains, it must be heaven itself, which is the home of the good God.” “Why, you poor mad soul!” said he contemptuously, “you speak of these as mountains--mountains, you soft goose? Why, they would speak of them as dunghills if they were near to London.” This insolent disdain of my country--for how else could a true son of Iberia regard such words?--gave me such an anger against the Englishman that I declined to speak with him for some time. No sooner did he discover the cause of my silence than his language grew still more licentious. “Pyrenees forsooth!” he exclaimed. “Mountains, ecod! Does the poor mad soul think I was born at Dublin?” Thereupon I withdrew my horse fifty paces to the rear, for I was determined that I would not remain in the company of one who wounded my country. Then it was that his demeanour changed. He made quite a handsome apology to Spain, withal accompanied by such a whimsical pleasantness that I was fain to forgive him, although exacting the condition that whatever was the higher merit of his native England, which I could not for a moment accept, he would make abatement of it in my presence. Upon this Sir Richard Pendragon bent forward and whispered in the ear of the extraordinary quadruped he was bestriding, for he had the habit of talking continually to this most strange beast. “’Tis a hard condition, is it not, good Melanto, for you and me that have such opinions of our own? But this youthful Don is a mad fellow, is he not, Melanto? Yet with the permission of Heaven you and I will always respect the whims of madness.”