At last they, too, were forced to cry, “enough” and we all united in a closer circle round the fire, while the wine-flask made a frequent circuit of the company. Dark and repulsive as the stranger’s countenance might be, as “sweetest nut has sourest rind,” he seemed at heart an excellent camarado. Indeed, we were no longer strangers. I spoke unreservedly--told him my objects and intentions--and, in return, obtained counsel and information. It struck me as being remarkable how very intimately the stranger seemed acquainted with the cantonments occupied by the allies, and the facility with which he named the strength and formation of every corps that occupied them. Touching the positions of the French armies, he was equally well informed--and, with the Spanish dispositions, perfectly familiar. “Ho--ho!” he exclaimed, holding the empty flask between him and the lamp; “the bottle’s dry. More wine, there! Come, gentlemen,” he said, “I shall play host to-night. I felt it rather an uncertainty this morning, whether I should have found the posada tenanted by friends or enemies; but the doubt has been agreeably resolved.” As he spoke, the landlord entered--placed a flask upon the table--and, having extracted the cork, was preparing to retire, when the dark stranger motioned him to sit down; an invitation, which it appeared to me “mine host” would rather have declined than accepted. “Fill thy horn,” said the master of the revels; “I would ask a few questions. There are none present but those to whom a true Spaniard need never be afraid to unbosom himself. In that jacket lie honour and good faith.” He pointed to my uniform. “And for my friends, I will be their security.” I never, in my life, saw a host less flattered with a guest’s civility. He took a seat--filled a cup--drank our good health--and appeared excessively uncomfortable. “Your name, my friend, is, I think, Gonsalvez--and I would ask some questions touching some of your acquaintances in Villa Moro. Speak out; and--” the stranger lowered his voice to a deep tone, that made me shudder--“what is more to the purpose, speak _truth!_” The landlord winced--while my dark-visaged friend, in a careless voice, continued-- “You had occasional visits from the French cwalry during the winter. There was a squadron of the 5th chasseurs à cheval here for a month. Where did their commandant reside?” “He quartered himself at the alcade’s,” returned the host. “Did he ever visit the postmaster?” asked the stranger. “Frequently,” was the reply. “What age is Jose de Toro?” “Sixty--or more.” returned the host. “And what the age of his wife” “Younger by forty years,” was the reply. “Then Jose de Toro was a fool to marry as he did. Was Captain Hillaire particularly intimate with the lady?”