"I shall be careful, never fear," the man said. "However, there would only be harm done if there happened to be a Frenchman--or one of their Spaniards, who are worse--present. As to my own comrades, it would not matter at all. We muleteers are all heart and soul against the French, and will do anything to injure them. We are all obliged to work for them; for all trade is at an end, and we must live. Many have joined the partisans, but those who have good mules cannot go away and give up their only means of earning a living; for although the French pay for carriage by mules or carts, if they come upon animals that are not being used, they take them without a single scruple. "Besides, there are not many partisans in this part of Spain. The French have been too long in the valley here, and are too strong in the Castiles for their operations. It is different in Navarre, Aragon, and Catalonia; and in Valencia and Mercia. There the French have never had a firm footing, and most of the strong places are still in Spanish hands. In all the mountainous parts, in fact, there are guerillas; but here it is too dangerous. There are bands all over the country, but these are really but robbers, and no honest man would join them. "This is the house." He turned in at a small doorway and unlocked the door, closing it after them. "Put your hand on my shoulder, Juan," he said. "I have a light upstairs." He led the way in darkness up a stone staircase, then unlocked another door and entered a small room, where a candle was burning. "This is my home, when I am here," he said. "Most of us sleep at the stables where our mules are put up; but I like having a place to myself, and my mate looks after the mules." Nothing could have been simpler than the furniture of the room. It consisted of a low pallet, a small table, and a single chair. In a corner were a pair of saddlebags and two or three coloured blankets. A thick coat, lined with sheepskin, hung against the wall. In a corner was a brightly-coloured picture of a saint, with two sconces for candles by the side of it. The muleteer had crossed himself and bowed to it as he came in, and Terence doubted not that it was the picture of a saint who was supposed to take a special interest in muleteers. From a small cupboard, the man brought out a flask of wine and two drinking cups. "It is good," he said, as he placed them on the table. "I go down to Xeres sometimes, and always bring up a half octave of something special for my friends, here." After pouring out the two cups, he handed the chair politely to Terence, and sat himself down on the edge of the pallet. Then, taking out a tobacco bag and a roll of paper, he made a cigarette and handed it to Terence, and then rolled one for himself. Chapter 13: From Salamanca To Cadiz.