"But we may lose the track," I urged. "True; so do you remain where you are, while I go down into the hollow. Hollo now and then, to let me know your whereabouts." With his rifle in his hand, Hall, who was a fine active fellow, sprang down into a ravine that suddenly yawned before us, and I remained with my rifle cocked, and stooped low to watch what might follow. Hall disappeared in the obscurity below. I halloed; but the night wind tossed back my own shout upon me. Then I thought I heard his voice, and sprang after him; but fell upon a point of rock, and sank, completely stunned, to the earth. There I lay for nearly a quarter of an hour, unable to move, or rally my senses. When I arose, I found myself at the bottom of the hollow, and upon a narrow mule track; the moon was rising brightly at the south end of the ravine, silvering the masses of rocks, tufts of laurel-trees, and wild vines that grew in the clefts of the basalt. I shouted, but received no reply; and after a long and fruitless search could discover no trace of Hall in any direction. Considerably alarmed for his safety as well as my own--for to lie at night upon those hills of Antequera, with the devilish stories of Pedrillo and the contrabandistas haunting one's memory, was anything but pleasant--I tried the charges of my rifle, looked again to the percussion-caps, and set off in that direction where, by the rising of the moon, I knew that Malaga must lie; but frequently paused to hollo for Jack Hall, and received no reply save the echoes of the rocks. The ravine descended and grew more open. Again I saw the Vega sleeping at my feet in the haze; and, on turning an angle of the road, found myself close to an inn or taberna, which I approached with joy, concluding that my friend Jack must have gone that way, and would probably be there. Like all Spanish inns, it was a large and mis-shapen edifice, the lower story of which was nothing better than a great open shed, for mules and vehicles; and, ascending from thence by a stair, I reached a gallery, at the door of which I was received by the host, who carried in his hand a stable lantern. "Entrar," said he, bowing profoundly; "entrar, señor." "I have been shooting on the mountains," said I, "and have lost my companion, a British naval officer. Has he passed this way?" "No, señor," replied the host, (whose face I could not yet see,) as he led me up another stair. "Then get supper prepared; for he must soon be here, as I have no doubt he knows pretty well the direction of Malaga. And now," said I, drawing a long breath, as I seated myself, "what place is this?" "La Posada del Cavallo." (!) "Eh! ah--and you?" I asked, in a thick voice. "Martin Secco, at your service, Señor Caballero!" "Here was a dénouement! "Good Heavens!" thought I, mechanically resuming my rifle; "if the stories of Pedrillo should be true." I scrutinised my host and hostess.