We arrived at Betanzos late in the afternoon. This town stands on a creek at some distance from the sea, and about three leagues from Coruña. It is surrounded on three sides by lofty hills. The weather during the greater part of the day had been dull and lowering, and we found the atmosphere of Betanzos insupportably close and heavy. Sour and disagreeable odours assailed our olfactory organs from all sides. The streets were filthy—so were the houses, and especially the posada. We entered the stable; it was strewed with rotten sea-weeds and other rubbish, in which pigs were wallowing; huge and loathsome flies were buzzing around. “What a pest-house!” I exclaimed. But we could find no other stable, and were therefore obliged to tether the unhappy animals to the filthy mangers. The only provender that could be obtained was Indian corn. At nightfall I led them to drink at a small river which passes through Betanzos. My entero swallowed the water greedily; but as we returned towards the inn, I observed that he was sad, and that his head drooped. He had scarcely reached the stall, when a deep hoarse cough assailed him. I remembered the words of the ostler in the mountains, “the man must be mad who brings a horse to Galicia, and doubly so he who brings an entero.” During the greater part of the day the animal had been much heated, walking amidst a throng of at least a hundred pony mares. He now began to shiver violently. I procured a quart of anise brandy, with which, assisted by Antonio, I rubbed his body for nearly an hour, till his coat was covered with a white foam; but his cough increased perceptibly, his eyes were becoming fixed, and his members rigid. “There is no remedy but bleeding,” said I. “Run for a farrier.” The farrier came. “You must bleed the horse,” I shouted; “take from him an azumbre of blood.” The farrier looked at the animal, and made for the door. “Where are you going?” I demanded. “Home,” he replied. “But we want you here.” “I know you do,” was his answer; “and on that account I am going.” “But you must bleed the horse, or he will die.” “I know he will,” said the farrier, “but I will not bleed him.” “Why?” I demanded. “I will not bleed him, but under one condition.” “What is that?” “What is it!—that you pay me an ounce of gold.” “Run for the red morocco case,” said I to Antonio. It was brought; I took out a large fleam, and with the assistance of a stone, drove it into the principal artery horse’s leg. The blood at first refused to flow; with much rubbing, it began to trickle, and then to stream; it continued so for half an hour. “The horse is fainting, mon maître,” said Antonio. “Hold him up,” said I, “and in another ten minutes we will stop the vein.” I closed the vein, and whilst doing so I looked up into the farrier’s face, arching my eyebrows.