We
Passed By Soto Luino, And Shaping Our Course Through A Wild But
Picturesque Country, We Found Ourselves About Nightfall At The Foot
Of A Steep Hill, Up Which Led A Narrow Bridle-Way, Amidst A Grove
Of Lofty Trees.
Long before we had reached the top it had become
quite dark, and the rain had increased considerably.
We stumbled
along in the obscurity, leading our horses, which were occasionally
down on their knees, owing to the slipperiness of the path. At
last we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing briskly
forward, we found ourselves, in about half an hour, at the entrance
of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity of the
farther side of the hill.
A blazing fire in the posada soon dried our wet garments, and in
some degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had undergone
in scrambling up the bellotas. A rather singular place was this
same posada of Muros. It was a large rambling house, with a
spacious kitchen, or common room, on the ground floor. Above
stairs was a large dining-apartment, with an immense oak table, and
furnished with cumbrous leathern chairs with high backs, apparently
three centuries old at least. Communicating with this apartment
was a wooden gallery, open to the air, which led to a small
chamber, in which I was destined to sleep, and which contained an
old-fashioned tester-bed with curtains. It was just one of those
inns which romance writers are so fond of introducing in their
descriptions, especially when the scene of adventure lies in Spain.
The host was a talkative Asturian.
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