“I tell you this is the fiend,” said the innkeeper vehemently. “He is hugeous, gigantical; and when he cools his porridge he snorts like a horse. Three weeks has he lain upon me like the pestilence. He has picked my larder bare, and swears by his beard he’ll treat my bones the same if I do not use him like an emperor. He has poured all the choice red wine out of my skins into his thrice cursed one. He outs his bilbo if a man so much as looks upon him twice. All my custom is scattered to the wind. _Me hace volver loco!_ His mouth is packed with barbarous expressions. And he has an eye.” In spite of my father’s sword and the natural resolution that goes with my name and province the strange excitement of the landlord made me thrill all over. “It is the eye of the fiend,” he said. “It glows red like a coal; it is hungry like a vulture’s, fierce like a wolf’s. And then his voice--it is like an earthquake in the mountains. Oh, your worship, it is Lucifer in person who has come to comb my hair!” I reproved the poor rustic for this levity. “Nay, your worship, I speak the truth,” he said miserably. “The good God knows it is so. I am a ruined man. The Devil has lain three weeks in my house, yet I have not received a cuarto for his maintenance. A lion could not be so ravenous. He has devoured lean meat, fat meat, not to mention goodly vegetable. He has drunk wine enough to rot his soul. Ten men together could not use their fangs like he and roar so loud, yet I assure your worship I have not received so much as a cuarto.” “This matter is certainly grievous,” said I. “Is there nothing you can do to get this person out of your house?” “Nothing, nothing,” said the innkeeper miserably. “Why, sir, I offered him the whole of the profits I made last year--no less than the sum of ten crowns--to go away from my inn before ruin had come upon me. He took my money, and said he would bring his mind to bear upon the subject.” “Was your course a wise one?” “It may have been wise, your worship, and yet it may not. For upon bringing his mind to bear upon the subject, he said he had decided to curtail his visit by ten days; but as he is lying upon me still, it appears uncommonly like it that honest Pedro has had dealings with a villain.” “That is as may be,” said I; “but the good Don Ygnacio de Sarda y Boegas, who died a week ago of the stone, would have no man judged harshly until his conduct had been carefully weighed.” “If Don Ygnacio was as good as you say, I expect he never had the Devil in person cooling his porridge at the side of his chimney.” “No, by my faith. But are you not calling this unlucky individual out of his true character?” “Well, your worship, it is like this, do you see,” said the innkeeper humbly; “poor Pedro once had the misfortune to steal a horse.” “You stole a horse, and yet you were not hanged!”