When I was come to Seville, and had placed my baggage in an inn, not one of the most frequented, I set out to deliver a letter of recommendation to a famous physician of the town whose name I have long forgotten. This physician had a fine house in the street of Las Palmas, a great avenue planted with graceful trees, that has other little streets running into it. Down one of these I came from my inn, a quiet narrow place having houses with _patios_ or courtyards on either side of it. As I walked down this street I noticed a man sitting in the shade on a stool in the doorway of his _patio_. He was small and withered, with keen black eyes and a wonderful air of wisdom, and he watched me as I went by. Now the house of the famous physician whom I sought was so placed that the man sitting at this doorway could command it with his eyes and take note of all who went in and came out. When I had found the house I returned again into the quiet street and walked to and fro there for a while, thinking of what tale I should tell to the physician, and all the time the little man watched me with his keen eyes. At last I had made up my story and went to the house, only to find that the physician was from home. Having inquired when I might find him I left, and once more took to the narrow street, walking slowly till I came to where the little man sat. As I passed him, his broad hat with which he was fanning himself slipped to the ground before my feet. I stooped down, lifted it from the pavement, and restored it to him. “A thousand thanks, young sir,” he said in a full and gentle voice. “You are courteous for a foreigner.” “How do you know me to be a foreigner, señor?” I asked, surprised out of my caution. “If I had not guessed it before, I should know it now,” he answered, smiling gravely. “Your Castilian tells its own tale.” I bowed, and was about to pass on, when he addressed me again. “What is your hurry, young sir? Step in and take a cup of wine with me; it is good.” I was about to say him nay, when it came into my mind that I had nothing to do, and that perhaps I might learn something from this gossip. “The day is hot, señor, and I accept.” He spoke no more, but rising, led me into a courtyard paved with marble in the centre of which was a basin of water, having vines trained around it. Here were chairs and a little table placed in the shade of the vines. When he had closed the door of the _patio_ and we were seated, he rang a silver bell that stood upon the table, and a girl, young and fair, appeared from the house, dressed in a quaint Spanish dress. “Bring wine,” said my host. The wine was brought, white wine of Oporto such as I had never tasted before. “Your health, señor?” And my host stopped, his glass in his hand, and looked at me inquiringly. “Diego d’Aila,” I answered. “Humph,” he said. “A Spanish name, or perhaps an imitation Spanish name, for I do not know it, and I have a good head for names.”