"But we want you here." "I know
you do," was his answer; "and on that account I am going." "But
you must bleed the horse, or he will die." "I know he will," said
the farrier, "but I will not bleed him." "Why?" I demanded. "I
will not bleed him, but under one condition." "What is that?"
"What is it! - that you pay me an ounce of gold." "Run for the red
morocco case," said I to Antonio. It was brought; I took out a
large fleam, and with the assistance of a stone, drove it into the
principal artery horse's leg. The blood at first refused to flow;
with much rubbing, it began to trickle, and then to stream; it
continued so for half an hour. "The horse is fainting, mon
maitre," said Antonio. "Hold him up," said I, "and in another ten
minutes we will stop the vein."
I closed the vein, and whilst doing so I looked up into the
farrier's face, arching my eyebrows.
"Carracho! what an evil wizard," muttered the farrier, as he walked
away. "If I had my knife here I would stick him." We bled the
horse again, during the night, which second bleeding I believe
saved him. Towards morning he began to eat his food.
The next day we departed for Coruna, leading our horses by the
bridle: the day was magnificent, and our walk delightful. We
passed along beneath tall umbrageous trees, which skirted the road
from Betanzos to within a short distance of Coruna. Nothing could
be more smiling and cheerful than the appearance of the country
around. Vines were growing in abundance in the vicinity of the
villages through which we passed, whilst millions of maize plants
upreared their tall stalks and displayed their broad green leaves
in the fields. After walking about three hours, we obtained a view
of the bay of Coruna, in which, even at the distance of a league,
we could distinguish three or four immense ships riding at anchor.
"Can these vessels belong to Spain?" I demanded of myself. In the
very next village, however, we were informed that the preceding
evening an English squadron had arrived, for what reason nobody
could say. "However," continued our informant, "they have
doubtless some design upon Galicia. These foreigners are the ruin
of Spain."
We put up in what is called the Calle Real, in an excellent fonda,
or posada, kept by a short, thick, comical-looking person, a
Genoese by birth. He was married to a tall, ugly, but good-
tempered Basque woman, by whom he had been blessed with a son and
daughter. His wife, however, had it seems of late summoned all her
female relations from Guipuscoa, who now filled the house to the
number of nine, officiating as chambermaids, cooks, and scullions:
they were all very ugly, but good-natured, and of immense
volubility of tongue. Throughout the whole day the house resounded
with their excellent Basque and very bad Castilian.
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