I drew off my boots and flung them heavily on the floor, as one might do who was undressing; and having thus, as I supposed, deceived any one who was listening, drew them carefully on again; tightened the buckle of my waist-belt, and loosened my good Toledo sabre in its sheath. I then examined my pistols; ay de mi! what were my emotions on finding the percussion caps removed, and that my pouch, with the remainder, was in my holsters below! My heart stood still on beholding this, and an emotion of rage shook my heart, for I now remembered having laid them on the table beside me in case of accident, for I once had a friend who was killed by a pistol exploding in his belt. The patrona, while laying the supper table, or bustling about me, had adroitly--but the saints alone know how--removed the caps. Twenty times I searched every pocket, in the faint and desperate hope of finding a stray one. Not one--they were all below with my holsters. "Ass that I am!" thought I, replacing them with a sigh in my belt; "this will be a lesson of prudence that may cost me dear." At that moment the candle-end sank down in the iron holder; it shot one red flush upwards on the cobwebbed ceiling and damp, discoloured walls; on the ill-jointed trap-door which led to the lower story, and expired. I was in darkness at last, with no companions but my Toledo and my own thoughts. The first was silent--the second sufficiently uncomfortable. Sleepless and watchful, I lay on the miserable pallet for more than an hour, till the silence began to oppress me, and in spite of myself, my eyes were closing. Could it be the drug--could it be the wine that slowly was sealing them up? Nonsense; I had but put it to my lips, and I struggled to shake off the coming sleep. Yet, I must have closed my eyes for a moment, for I started suddenly, like one who dreams he is on the brink of a precipice. A strange shivering--a minute, pricking sensation ran all over me from head to foot, and from a state of drowsiness, I sprang all at once to the sharpest wakefulness, and grasped the hilt of my drawn sabre. A dim light was now ascending from the floor of the apartment, and I perceived the trap-door was lifted up, and the round bullet-head of the hostalero appeared, with his deep-set stealthy eyes, scanning the bed and its occupant, myself, who affected to be sound asleep. Up, up he came, step by step, until he stood by my side, with one hand grasping his long cuchillo, and a finger on his coarse, blubber-like lips, as if he would impose silence on himself, and still his very breathing.