Now, in the circumstances, such an address was extremely singular, but the courtesy with which it was accompanied was so fine, and the air and bearing of the person who employed it were so admirable, that I knew at once that I had been accosted by a man of birth. Taking off his hat, which was adorned with a long white plume, he bowed to the ground; and while I hoped that my demeanour was in nowise behind his own, I could not refrain from feeling how much honour his true Spanish politeness did him. “You are of Castile, sir, I am sure?” “Ah no,” said he, in a soft, lisping accent, “I can make no claim to be one of your adorable nation.” “Then, sir, may I ask to whom I have the honour of paying my addresses?” “Truly. I am Monsieur le Comte de Nullepart, Marquis de Outre le Mer, Sieur des Champs Elysées. And you, sir--and you?” “I am one Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, a name which has yet to declare itself, Sir Count, in this part of our peninsula, but which has been held in high esteem in our northern province of Asturias for many hundreds of years.” “We are choicely met, Don Miguel, and if you will do me the signal honour of accompanying me to supper, I shall be the happiest man in the world.” Upon an invitation of such courtesy you will readily suppose, good reader, it was not for me to refuse. For his musical speech, the delicate breeding of his air, the distinction of his dress, sombre and chaste, yet handsome and well fitting, all proclaimed his quality. His face looked melancholy, yet now and again a tender and sweet smile would suffuse it, and change it altogether as if by the magic of poetry. The companion I had found in this strange and providential fashion would not hear of my parting with Babieca, although within five minutes of our acquaintance I must have revealed to him my bitter poverty, for he was such a one to whom the proudest bosom unfolds its secrets. There was some kind of enchantment in his face, and I took no shame from telling him that I was in the world alone, and that fortune had rebuffed me. “Ah, Fortune, Fortune!” said he. “She is the Proud Princess whom we woo all our days, and who kills us with melancholy because she will have none of us. Did you ever meet one, my dear Don Miguel, upon whom she had smiled?” “No, Sir Count,” said I, “I have yet to have that happiness. She did not smile upon my father, and she hath not smiled upon me.” “The proud jade is a chimera,” said the Count of Nullepart. “We seek her all our days, and when at last we have come up with her, and we press her to our bosom--lo! she is not, and we find ourselves embracing the air. But come, my dear Don Miguel, we will eat in our inn, and leave philosophy until after supper.”