Among other things, as became my elevation of mind, I had wondered many times why this singular quadruped--horse I will not call it--should bear such a remarkable name. It appeared to be the height of idiosyncrasy to bestow upon a four-footed beast a name which could only have been familiar to scholars. And so, to appease my curiosity and to change the unlucky tenor of our discourse, I said, “Wherefore, kind and gracious Sir Richard Pendragon, do you call your four-footed quadruped by the name of Melanto? Is not the name passing odd for a shaggy animal with a long tail?” “Well, my young companion, if you must know the reason,” said the Englishman, “he owes the name of Melanto to his preoccupation with the things of the mind.” “Is that the name of one of the learned?” I asked dubiously, because I had to confess that to myself it was wholly dark. “Melanto,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “was the name of a learned Mongolian who founded a religious order. First a sea captain, he became an astrologer in his later years, in order that he might confer with the stars in their courses and the works of nature.” “I was ignorant of these facts,” I owned humbly, for Sir Richard seemed to imply that an enlightened mind should be familiar with these things, “but doubtless they are well acquainted with them at Salamanca.” “Doubtless they are, good Don,” said Sir Richard Pendragon gravely. At this moment the Count of Nullepart was so shaken with laughter that I feared he might fall from his horse. Upon what pretext he indulged it I do not know; but as he was much addicted to mirth which seemed without any true cause to call it forth, I was fain to ascribe it to his French nationality, which, as all the world knows, has too little regard for the light of reason. Perhaps we had been some twenty days on our journey by the time we came into France. As we approached that curious country, which in nowise resembles that of Spain, I inquired of my companions wherein this land differed especially from that of its surpassing neighbour. “It is the inhabitants, good Don, that make the difference,” Sir Richard Pendragon informed me. “They grimace like monkeys and are addicted to the practice of eating frogs.” “But, good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, “the worshipful Count of Nullepart is of this nation, and upon my life I have never observed him grimace like a monkey, and I will answer for it that his table manners are so delicate that he would eschew the practice of eating frogs.” “My dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, smiling, “upon what pretext do you associate one so inconsiderable as myself with that meritorious nation, the French?” “Surely, Sir Count, your name is your guarantee,” I rejoined. “At least I have always understood it to be so.” “In that particular you are doubtless correct, my dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, “at least that is when I travel in Spain. But now we are over the French border I rejoice in a better.”