As they were going along the road, one of the travellers drew a cigar-case out of his pocket, which his captors had forgotten to search, takes a cigar, strikes a light, and lights it. "Would you like a cigar?" he says to the chief bandit, with true Castilian politeness; "they are real Havannahs." "_Con mucho gusto_," replies the bandit, flattered by this mark of attention, and, the next instant, the traveller and the brigand are standing opposite each other, cigar against cigar, puffing and blowing away, in order to light their cigars more quickly. They then commenced a conversation, and, from one thing to another, the robber, like all commercial men, began complaining of business: times were hard, things were in a bad state; many honest people had entered the profession and spoilt it; the robbers were obliged to wait their turn to pillage the miserable diligences, and, very frequently, three or four bands were obliged to fight with one another for the spoil of the same _galera_, or the same convoy of mules. Besides this, the travellers, who were sure of being robbed, only took with them what was absolutely necessary, and wore their worst clothes. "Just tell me," said he, with a melancholy dejected air, pointing to his cloak, which was threadbare, and patched all over, and which would have been worthy of enveloping Probity in person, "is it not shameful that we should be under the necessity of stealing a rag like this? Is not my jacket one of the most virtuous description? Could the most honest man in the world be dressed more shabbily than I am? It is true that we keep our prisoners as hostages, but relations, now-a-days, are so hard-hearted, that they cannot be induced to loosen their purse-strings, so that, at the expiration of two or three months, we are put to the extra expense of a charge of powder and shot to blow out our prisoners' brains, which is always a very disagreeable thing, when you have got accustomed to their society. In order to do all this, too, we are obliged to sleep on the ground, eat acorns, which are not always palatable, drink melted snow, make tremendous journeys on the most abominable roads, and risk our lives at every moment." So spoke the worthy bandit, more disgusted with his profession than a Parisian journalist, when it is his turn to write a _feuilleton_. "But," said the traveller, "if your profession does not please you, and brings you in so little, why do you not follow some other?" "I have often thought of doing so," replied the robber, "and so have my comrades as well; but what can we do? We are tracked, pursued, and should be shot down like dogs, if we were to go near a village. No, we must continue the same kind of life." The traveller, who was a man of some influence, remained a moment buried in thought; at last he remarked, "Then you would willingly give up your present calling, if you were allowed to benefit by the _indulto_ (if you were amnestied?)" "Most certainly," answered all the band. "Do