"It was likely, monsieur." Nearly all of the Ethenard-Eskurolas spoke English, because one of their so numerous ancestors was the great Don Miguel Ricardo d'Alava, general under the Duke of Wellington, who valued him above all his generals in that Spanish campaign. Since then there had always been English teachers for the children of the house. So much was common knowledge. It was enough for Cartaret. Within the hour he was summoning the proprietor of his hotel to his assistance in arranging for an expedition to Alegria. The hotel proprietor stroked a beard so bristling as to threaten his caressing fingers. "It is a wild country," he remarked. "That's what they all say," returned Cartaret. "When does the next train leave for it?" "There is no train. Alegria is a little town in the high Cantabrian Mountains, far from any train." "Then come along downtown and help me buy a horse," said Cartaret. "I saw a lot of likely-looking ones this morning." "But, monsieur," expostulated the hotel proprietor, "nobody between here and Alegria speaks French. Nobody in Alegria speaks French--and you do not speak _Eskura_." "What's that?" "It is how we Basques name our own tongue." "Well, I don't care. Get me a guide." "I fear I cannot, monsieur. The country people do not want Alava to become the prey of tourists, and they will be slow to allow a stranger." "Have you got a road-map?" Yes, the proprietor had a road-map--of sorts. It looked faulty, and Cartaret found later that it was more faulty than it looked; but he resolved to make it do, and that afternoon found him in the saddle of a lean and hardy mare, ten miles on his way. He had brought with him a pair of English riding-breeches and leggings--purchased in Paris for no other reason than that he had the money and used to love to ride--his reduced equipment was in saddle-bags, and the road-map in his handiest pocket. He put up at a little inn that night and rode hard, east by south, all the next day. He rode through fertile valleys where the fields were already yellow with wheat and barley. He came upon patches of Indian corn that made him think of the country about his own Ohio home, and upon flax-fields and fields of hemp. His way lay steadily upward, and in the hills he met with iron-banks and some lead and copper mines. Queerly costumed peasants herded sheep and goats along the roadside; but nobody that Cartaret addressed could understand a word of his speech. The road-map was bad, indeed: twice he lost his way by consulting it and once, he thought, by failing to consult it. A road that the map informed him would lead straight to Alegria ended in a marble-quarry. Cartaret accosted the only workman in sight. "Alegria?" he asked. The man pointed back the way that Cartaret had come.