“A mule,” repeated the wine-seller, his eyes fixed on that quaint and snuffy figure. . .  “No, senor officer!  Decidedly no mule is to be got in this poor place.”

The coxswain, who stood by with the true sailor’s air of unconcern in strange surroundings, struck in quietly —

“If your honour will believe me Shank’s pony’s the best for this job.  I would have to leave the beast somewhere, anyhow, since the captain has told me that half my way will be along paths fit only for goats.”

The diminutive man made a step forward, and speaking through the folds of the cloak which seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention —

“Si, senor.  They are too honest in this village to have a single mule amongst them for your worship’s service.  To that I can bear testimony.  In these times it’s only rogues or very clever men who can manage to have mules or any other four-footed beasts and the wherewithal to keep them.  But what this valiant mariner wants is a guide; and here, senor, behold my brother-in-law, Bernardino, wine-seller, and alcade of this most Christian and hospitable village, who will find you one.”

This, Mr. Byrne says in his relation, was the only thing to do.  A youth in a ragged coat and goat-skin breeches was produced after some more talk.  The English officer stood treat to the whole village, and while the peasants drank he and Cuba Tom took their departure accompanied by the guide.  The diminutive man in the cloak had disappeared.

Byrne went along with the coxswain out of the village.  He wanted to see him fairly on his way; and he would have gone a greater distance, if the seaman had not suggested respectfully the advisability of return so as not to keep the ship a moment longer than necessary so close in with the shore on such an unpromising looking morning.  A wild gloomy sky hung over their heads when they took leave of each other, and their surroundings of rank bushes and stony fields were dreary.

“In four days’ time,” were Byrne’s last words, “the ship will stand in and send a boat on shore if the weather permits.  If not you’ll have to make it out on shore the best you can till we come along to take you off.”

“Right you are, sir,” answered Tom, and strode on.  Byrne watched him step out on a narrow path.  In a thick pea-jacket with a pair of pistols in his belt, a cutlass by his side, and a stout cudgel in his hand, he looked a sturdy figure and well able to take care of himself.  He turned round for a moment to wave his hand, giving to Byrne one more view of his honest bronzed face with bushy whiskers.  The lad in goatskin breeches looking, Byrne says, like a faun or a young satyr leaping ahead, stopped to wait for him, and then went off at a bound.  Both disappeared.

Byrne turned back.  The hamlet was hidden in a fold of the ground, and the spot seemed the most lonely corner of the earth and as if accursed in its uninhabited desolate barrenness.  Before he had walked many yards, there appeared very suddenly from behind a bush the muffled up diminutive Spaniard.  Naturally Byrne stopped short.