I Gave The Usual Answer,
"Espana," And Went Up To The Place Where He Stood.
After a little
conversation, I sat down on a stone, awaiting the arrival of
Antonio, who was long in making his appearance.
On his arrival, I
asked if any one had passed him on the road, but he replied that he
had seen nothing. The night, or rather the morning, was still very
dark, though a small corner of the moon was occasionally visible.
On our inquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet directed us down
a street to the left, which we followed. The street was steep, we
could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by houses and
wall. We knocked at the gates of two or three of these houses (in
the upper stories of which lights were burning), for the purpose of
being set right, but we were either disregarded or not heard. A
horrid squalling of cats, from the tops of the houses and dark
corners, saluted our ears, and I thought of the night arrival of
Don Quixote and his squire at Toboso, and their vain search amongst
the deserted streets for the palace of Dulcinea. At length we saw
light and heard voices in a cottage at the other side of a kind of
ditch. Leading the horses over, we called at the door, which was
opened by an aged man, who appeared by his dress to be a baker, as
indeed he proved, which accounted for his being up at so late an
hour. On begging him to show us the way into the town, he led us
up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying that he
would likewise conduct us to the posada.
The alley led directly to what appeared to be the market-place, at
a corner house of which our guide stopped and knocked. After a
long pause an upper window was opened, and a female voice demanded
who we were. The old man replied, that two travellers had arrived
who were in need of lodging. "I cannot be disturbed at this time
of night," said the woman; "they will be wanting supper, and there
is nothing in the house; they must go elsewhere." She was going to
shut the window, but I cried that we wanted no supper, but merely
resting place for ourselves and horses - that we had come that day
from Astorga, and were dying with fatigue. "Who is that speaking?"
cried the woman. "Surely that is the voice of Gil, the German
clock-maker from Pontevedra. Welcome, old companion; you are come
at the right time, for my own is out of order. I am sorry I have
kept you waiting, but I will admit you in a moment."
The window was slammed to, presently a light shone through the
crevices of the door, a key turned in the lock, and we were
admitted.
CHAPTER XXV
Villafranca - The Pass - Gallegan Simplicity - The Frontier Guard - The
Horse-shoe - Gallegan Peculiarities - A Word on Language - The
Courier - Wretched Cabins - Host and Guests - Andalusians.
"Ave Maria," said the woman; "whom have we here? This is not Gil
the clock-maker." "Whether it be Gil or Juan," said I, "we are in
need of your hospitality, and can pay for it." Our first care was
to stable the horses, who were much exhausted. We then went in
search of some accommodation for ourselves. The house was large
and commodious, and having tasted a little water, I stretched
myself on the floor of one of the rooms on some mattresses which
the woman produced, and in less than a minute was sound asleep.
The sun was shining bright when I awoke. I walked forth into the
market-place, which was crowded with people, I looked up, and could
see the peaks of tall black mountains peeping over the tops of the
houses. The town lay in a deep hollow, and appeared to be
surrounded by hills on almost every side. "Quel pays barbare!"
said Antonio, who now joined me; "the farther we go, my master, the
wilder everything looks. I am half afraid to venture into Galicia;
they tell me that to get to it we must clamber up those hills: the
horses will founder." Leaving the market-place I ascended the wall
of the town, and endeavoured to discover the gate by which we
should have entered the preceding night; but I was not more
successful in the bright sunshine than in the darkness. The town
in the direction of Astorga appeared to be hermetically sealed.
I was eager to enter Galicia, and finding that the horses were to a
certain extent recovered from the fatigue of the journey of the
preceding day, we again mounted and proceeded on our way. Crossing
a bridge, we presently found ourselves in a deep gorge amongst the
mountains, down which rushed an impetuous rivulet, overhung by the
high road which leads into Galicia. We were in the far-famed pass
of Fuencebadon.
It is impossible to describe this pass or the circumjacent region,
which contains some of the most extraordinary scenery in all Spain;
a feeble and imperfect outline is all that I can hope to effect.
The traveller who ascends it follows for nearly a league the course
of the torrent, whose banks are in some places precipitous, and in
others slope down to the waters, and are covered with lofty trees,
oaks, poplars, and chestnuts. Small villages are at first
continually seen, with low walls, and roofs formed of immense
slates, the eaves nearly touching the ground; these hamlets,
however, gradually become less frequent as the path grows more
steep and narrow, until they finally cease at a short distance
before the spot is attained where the rivulet is abandoned, and is
no more seen, though its tributaries may yet be heard in many a
gully, or descried in tiny rills dashing down the steeps.
Everything here is wild, strange, and beautiful:
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