Borrow says, after travelling a long distance by night, and setting out again the next morning to travel thirteen leagues:—“Throughout the day a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and mire. Towards evening we reached a moor—a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones and rocks. The wind had ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs. The sun went down, and dark night presently came over us. We proceeded for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the distance. ‘That is Trujillo,’ said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time. ‘I am glad of it,’ I replied; ‘I am so thoroughly tired, I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo.’ That is as it may be. We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough. I followed close behind the Gipsy, who led the way, I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places where cats were squalling. ‘Here is the house,’ said he at last, dismounting before a low, mean hut. He knocked, but no answer. He knocked again, but no answer. ‘There can be no difficulty,’ said I, ‘with respect to what we have to do. If your friends are gone out, it is easy enough to go to a posada.’ ‘You know not what you say,’ replied the Gipsy. ‘I dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and this is shut. Well, there is no remedy; we must move on; and, between ourselves, the sooner we leave the place the better. My own brother was garroted at Trujillo.’ He lighted a cigar by means of a steel and yesca, sprung on his mule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those through which we had already travelled.” Mr. Borrow goes on to say:—“I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gipsy; I felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind, and to venture into unknown places in the dark of the night, amidst rain and mist—for the wind had now dropped, and the rain again began to fall briskly. I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender. I had, however, put myself under the direction of the Gipsy, and I was too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under present circumstances. I therefore followed close to his crupper, our only light being the glow emitted from the Gipsy’s cigar. At last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness. We proceeded in this manner for a long time. The Gipsy was silent. I myself was equally so. The rain descended more and more. I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls. ‘This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,’ I at length said to Antonio, the Gipsy. (The Gipsy word for Antonio is ‘Devil.’) ‘It is, brother,’ said the