"Our Lady del Pilar! a modest request," replied Lazaro. "Why, brother Pedro, bethink you. I cannot touch the burdens of my cattle,—they are the property of others. Could I broach a skin, our best would be at the service of the noble cavalier. And as for our aquardiente, I avouch, by the head of his Holiness! that better never came out of Catalonia." "I may pretend to be a judge," said the soldier, "as I have drunk some thousand flasks of it; and avouch, in return, ’tis muddy as the Tajo in a shower, and only fit for a Portuguese or a dog to drink!" "Never mind, Lazaro; your aquardiente is most excellent," observed Ronald, seating himself by the gushing fountain, and partaking of the bread and bacallao, or dried cod-fish, which composed their simple fare. "Your mules seem heavily laden: how far do you mean to travel to-night?" "As far as the first posada on the road to Majorga." "What do your cattle carry in these large packages?" "Oh! senor, many things; principally flour, rice, corn, pulse, and wine and oil in skins. These commodities we have brought from the centre of Catalonia and Arragon, and are carrying to the frontiers of Portugal to sell among the British troops. We hope to find a good market at the camp before Ciudad Rodrigo, in the kingdom of Leon." "Catalonia and Arragon, did you say? How! These provinces are in possession of the French troops!" "True, senor; but we muleteers have ways of our own, by which we evade the out-picquets and foraging parties of the enemy." "Such as——" "Travelling fast all night, and concealing ourselves closely all day,—and a hundred other modes. Senor, we would evade Satan himself, did he lay snares for us. We muleteers are cunning fellows!" "You speak truly," observed Pedro. "A Spanish muleteer is a strange being, and one that is as wily and active as a serpent; but they are happy fellows, I assure you, senor, and like no other men that I know of. A muleteer makes his home every where, because he is for ever wandering over all wide Spain. Cracking his whip and his joke, he travels with a light heart over our long dusty plains, and through the deep passes of the lofty hills and sierras, singing merrily to the jingle of his mules’ bells, stopping only to smack his wine-horn or the lips of the peasant girls, whom he loves almost as well as his mules,—only almost, senor, because he loves his mules better than himself. He gives them fine names; he scolds, talks, kisses, and sings to them, to cheer them by the way; and at the posada or the bivouac he provides for their wants before he looks after his own. Caramba! were I not a soldier, I would certainly become a jolly muleteer. He is a droll fellow indeed,—soft-hearted and hard-headed, but alway honest, and true as the sun, senor."