“Ahem, brother Pedro! This gentleman says that the greater part of Catalonia is in the hands of the royalists. Pray, sir, where may Don Carlos be at present with his army?” “He may be coming down the road this moment,” said I, “for what I know;” and, stepping out, I looked up the way. The two figures were at my side in a moment. Antonio followed, and we all four looked intently up the road. “Do you see anything?” said I at last to Antonia. “Non, _mon maître_.” “Do you see anything, sir?” said I to the curate. “I see nothing,” said the curate, stretching out his neck. “I see nothing,” said Pedro, the ex-friar; “I see nothing but the dust, which is becoming every moment more blinding.” “I shall go in, then,” said I. “Indeed, it is scarcely prudent to be standing here looking out for the Pretender; should the nationals of the town hear of it, they might perhaps shoot us.” “Ahem!” said the curate, following me; “there are no nationals in this place: I would fain see what inhabitant would dare become a national. When the inhabitants of this place were ordered to take up arms as nationals, they refused to a man, and on that account we had to pay a mulct; therefore, friend, you may speak out if you have anything to communicate; we are all of your opinion here.” “I am of no opinion at all,” said I, “save that I want my supper. I am neither for _Rey_ nor _Roque_. {313} You say that I am a Catalan, and you know that Catalans think only of their own affairs.” In the evening I strolled by myself about the village, which I found still more forlorn and melancholy that it at first appeared; perhaps, however, it had been a place of consequence in its time. In one corner of it I found the ruins of a large clumsy castle, chiefly built of flint stones: into these ruins I attempted to penetrate, but the entrance was secured by a gate. From the castle I found my way to the convent, a sad desolate place, formerly the residence of mendicant brothers of the order of St. Francis. I was about to return to the inn, when I heard a loud buzz of voices, and, following the sound, presently reached a kind of meadow, where, upon a small knoll, sat a priest in full canonicals, reading in a loud voice a newspaper, while around him, either erect or seated on the grass, were assembled about fifty _vecinos_, for the most part dressed in long cloaks, amongst whom I discovered my two friends the curate and friar. A fine knot of Carlist quidnuncs, said I to myself, and turned away to another part of the meadow, where the cattle of the village were grazing. The curate, on observing me, detached himself instantly from the group, and followed. “I am told you want a pony,” said he; “there now is mine feeding amongst those horses, the best in the kingdom of Leon.” He then began with all the volubility of a _chalan_ to descant on the points of the animal. Presently the friar joined us, who, observing his opportunity, pulled me by the sleeve and whispered, “Have