He followed the direction thus indicated and took a turning that he had missed before. He passed through a countryside of small plains. Then he began to climb again and left these for stretches of bare heath and hills covered with furze. From one hilltop he looked ahead to a vast pile of mountains crowned by two white peaks that shone in the sun like the lances of a celestial guard. The farms were less and less in size and farther and farther apart--tiny farms cultivated with antique implements. Apple-orchards appeared and disappeared, and then, quite suddenly, the hills became mountains, their bases covered by great forests of straight chestnut-trees, gigantic oaks and stately bushes whose limbs met in a dark canopy above the rider's head. At his approach, rabbits scurried, white tails erect, across the road; from one rare clearing a flock of partridges whirred skyward, and once, in the distance, he saw a grazing herd of wild deer. Late in the afternoon, he came to a wide plateau, surrounded on three sides with mountain-peaks. There was a lake in the center, with a few cottages scattered along its shores, and at one end of the lake a high-gabled, wide-eaved inn, in front of which a short man, dark and wiry and unlike the people of that country, lounged in the sun. He proved to be the innkeeper, a native of Navarre, and, to Cartaret's delight, spoke French. "Yes," he nodded, "I learned it years ago from a French servant that they used to have at the castle in the old lord's time." "I've come from Vitoria," Cartaret explained. "Can you tell me how far it is to Alegria?" "If you have come from Vitoria," was the suspicious answer, "you must have taken the wrong road and come around Alegria. Alegria is a score of miles behind you." Cartaret swore softly at that road-map. He was tired and stiff, however, and so he dismounted and let the landlord attend to his mare and bring him, at the inn-porch, some black bread and cheese and a small pitcher of _zaragua_, the native cider. "These are a strange people here," he said as the landlord took a chair opposite. The landlord shook his swarthy head. "I do not speak ill of them," said he. His tone implied that such a course would be unwise. "They call themselves," he went on after a ruminative pause, "the direct descendants of those Celtiberi whom the old Romans could never conquer, and I can well believe it of them. However, I know nothing: the lord at the castle knows." "They don't like the Spaniards?" asked Cartaret. "They hate us," said the innkeeper. "Why?" "I do not know. Perhaps because Spain rules them--so much as any power could. But I know nothing: the lord at the castle knows." "What's his name?" The question fell thoughtlessly from the lips of the American, but he had no sooner uttered it than he surmised its answer: "The Don Ricardo Ethenard-Eskurola d'Alegria." Cartaret produced a gold-piece and spun it on the rude table before him. "An important man, isn't he?"