We reached Pedroso shortly before nightfall. It was a small village, containing about thirty houses, and intersected by a rivulet, or, as it is called, a _regata_. On its banks women and maidens were washing their linen, and singing couplets; the church stood alone and solitary on the farther side. We inquired for the _posada_, and were shown a cottage, differing nothing from the rest in general appearance. We called at the door in vain, as it is not the custom of Castile for the people of these halting-places to go out to welcome their visitors: at last we dismounted and entered the house, demanding of a sullen-looking woman where we were to place the horses. She said there was a stable within the house, but we could not put the animals there, as it contained _malos machos_ {287} belonging to two travellers, who would certainly fight with our horses, and then there would be a _funcion_, which would tear the house down. She then pointed to an out-house across the way, saying that we could stable them there. We entered this place, which we found full of filth and swine, with a door without a lock. I thought of the fate of the _cura’s_ mule, and was unwilling to trust the horses in such a place, abandoning them to the mercy of any robber in the neighbourhood. I therefore entered the house, and said resolutely that I was determined to place them in the stable. Two men were squatted on the ground, with an immense bowl of stewed hare before them, on which they were supping; these were the travelling merchants, the masters of the mules. I passed on to the stable, one of the men saying softly, “Yes, yes, go in and see what will befall.” I had no sooner entered the stable than I heard a horrid discordant cry, something between a bray and a yell, and the largest of the _machos_, tearing his head from the manger to which he was fastened, his eyes shooting flames, and breathing a Whirlwind from his nostrils, flung himself on my stallion. The horse, as savage as himself, reared on his hind legs, and, after the fashion of an English pugilist, repaid the other with a pat on the forehead, which nearly felled him. A combat instantly ensued, and I thought that the words of the sullen woman would be verified by the house being torn to pieces. It ended by my seizing the mule by the halter, at the risk of my limbs, and hanging upon him with all my weight, whilst Antonio, with much difficulty, removed the horse. The man who had been standing at the entrance now came forward, saying, “This would not have happened if you had taken good advice.” Upon my stating to him the unreasonableness of expecting that I would risk horses in a place where they would probably be stolen before the morning, he replied, “True, true, you have perhaps done right.” He then re-fastened his _macho_, adding for additional security a piece of whipcord, which he said rendered escape impossible.