I gazed at the speaker, whom, by his green velvet jacket, adorned by four dozen of brass buttons, his sombrero, with its broad yellow ribband, his black plush breeches, red scarf and shoe-buckles, I supposed to be the substantial farmer of one of the adjacent quintas. He had a fine dark face, a powerful figure, and two black eyes that seemed to be always looking through me. Over one eyebrow, he had a large black patch. He carried a riding switch, had a knife in his girdle; and altogether, as he lolled on the sward, smoking a paper cigar and sipping red wine, I thought he would make a fine and striking sketch, and equal to any by Pinelli. "Juan Roa," said he, "has committed great outrages in the Vega of Granada. The Duke of Wellington has there an estate, having on it about three hundred tenants, who yield some fifteen thousand dollars of rental; but Juan has thrice drawn every duro of it from the old abagado, who acts as steward to the duke." The contrabandistas again laughed at this immoderately. "You have seen this Juan of Antequera, have you not?" said I. "Face to face--often, señor." "And so have I," said little Pedrillo. "You! and when was this, my little fellow?" said Jack Hall. "On the night old Barradas, the muleteer, was murdered." The Spaniard with the patch knit his brows. "Caramba!" said he; "ah! I remember that." "Tell us about this murder," said Hall. "You must know, señors," said Pedrillo, "that at the foot of the Sierra de Mija, about five miles from this, there stands a wayside inn, called La Posada del Cavallo, for the keeper, Martin Secco, had a great horse painted on his signboard. This man is the uncle of Juan Roa, or of Antequera. He has a wife, and had two daughters. The place is lonely; and it often happens, that those who put up there for the night forget the right path; for they are lost among the mountains, or fall into the sand-pits--at least, they are seldom heard of after. You understand, señors?" The Spaniard with the patch smiled grimly, and played with his knife. "One night last year, I guided Pedro Barradas, the Cordovan muleteer, to the posada, when it was dark as pitch. Pedro was very old, and half blind, and had never been that way before. A storm came on, and he desired me to remain with him, saying he would pay me well; old Barradas was rich; he had made money in the war of independence, and in the last civil war between the Carlists and Christines; and had given three silver images to the church of his native puebla in Jaen.