"Dios! Dios! worlds of patience!" and she stamped her tiny foot; "will you go on? You kill me with vexation. Translate it, I say, word for word." And here the Dona, with discreet carelessness opening her fan, prepared to blush. "'_Qui Dæmone pejus_'--who is there worse than the devil? Hum!"--now for the pinch, thought I. "Go on! go on!--the next words." "'_Mulier rixosa_'--is--a----" "Well, go on, will you?" "Yes--a quarrelsome woman!" Like lightning the fan closed, fell upon the unlucky index of my left hand, which was thoughtlessly reposing upon the arm of the _causeuse_, and nearly knocked off the first joint, by way of reward for my reluctant compliance with her feminine wishes. "Excuse me, Señora," I said, after I had recovered my breath, "but you are very unjust. I had nothing to do with writing this ungallant phrase; it was a brutal Roman, no doubt." "You are making game of me,--I know you are." "No, indeed; you insisted upon my translating it word for word, and I have done your bidding." "Then the man was a wretch who wrote them." "I think so too, Señora." "A brute--an animal!" "Certainly, Señora." "A fool--an old horror!" "Most probably." "An ignorant slanderer!" "Oh! surely." "A monster!" "I wager anything you like of it." But it was of no use; unconditional assent failed to pacify her. So she went on for hours; and it cost me untold pains to earn the brunette's permission to offer her an ice, or to win one single smile. CHAPTER IV. Le Morvan during the Middle Ages--Legendary horrors--Forest of La Goulotte--La Croix Chavannes--La Croix Mordienne--Hôtel de Chanty--Château de Lomervo--A French Bluebeard--Citadel of Lingou. But I must return from my Andalusian belle to the rugged Le Morvan,--a patriotic, but, in spite of the broken finger, by no means so captivating a subject.