The little house in which Pedro Sarmiento passed his childish days[257] is nothing but a white-washed granite cottage with the usual red-tiled roof. The last relic of the Sarmiento family is still there in the shape of two old maiden ladies, whom the townsfolk call _Las Sarmientas_. They have sold most of the original house, and only kept one little end of it for themselves to live in. No one who had studied the massive build of the granite cottages of Galicia would feel any surprise that one of them should last for nearly five centuries; they are as solid and firm as the rock from which their blocks are hewn. About two kilometres distant from Pontevedra is the quaint little village of Combarro, with about four hundred inhabitants; it is thought to be very ancient and to have derived its name from the Greek word χαμπτο. We left our carriage to scramble up and down its steep, narrow, and stony streets, with its houses of granite and its balconies of wood, and its red-tiled roofs. Some of the balconies were painted green, others blue, while most of the walls were covered with whitewash. We were invited to visit the inhabitants of several of the houses, and found all very poor. The village covers a steep hillside sloping down to the water, and most of the people are fisherfolk. At the door of one of the houses there suddenly appeared a woman of about forty-five years of age. I could see threads of silver in her thick black hair, but her face (though it had a wrinkle or two) was still beautiful. She addressed us in tones of the most passionate fervour; she wrung her hands, she lifted them to heaven, she swayed her body like a reed swayed by the wind, and at length burst into a flood of tears. “What is all this?” I asked of the friend who was with me, for the woman spoke in the Gallegan dialect, and so fast that I could catch very few of her words. “She is telling us of all the hardships that she and her neighbours have to bear,” replied my friend. “She says they are all being ruined by the heavy taxes that the Government [Illustration: VILLAGE OF COMBARRO, PONTEVEDRA] [Illustration: A NATIVE DOVE-COT] is imposing on all the produce of their industry, and the heavy rents demanded by the landlords. “‘We live from hand to mouth,’ she cried; ‘and everything we earn with the sweat of our brow is swallowed up in discharging our liabilities, in paying our rates, our rent, and our taxes. We cannot even buy bread for our children because of the oppression of the rich--because we have no money. There is plenty of money in the land, and plenty of food, but it does not come our way; we are being ground down and killed by the heavy and unjust taxes, and there is nothing to encourage us to work, and no hope for the future. Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful!’”