At the venta of Gaucin, where we stopped, the people received us kindly.  The house consisted of one room—­stable, kitchen, and dining-room all in one.  There was a small apartment in a windy loft, where a bed (much too short) was prepared for me.  A fire of dry heather was made in the wide fire-place, and the ruddy flames, with a change of clothing and a draught of the amber vintage of Estepona, soon thawed out the chill of the journey.  But I received news which caused me a great deal of anxiety.  The River Guadiaro was so high that nobody could cross, and two forlorn muleteers had been waiting eight days at the inn, for the waters to subside.  Augmented by the rain which had fallen, and which seemed to increase as night came on, how could I hope to cross it on the morrow?  In two days, the India steamer would be at Gibraltar; my passage was already taken, and I must be there.  The matter was discussed for some time; it was pronounced impossible to travel by the usual road, but the landlord knew a path among the hills which led to a ferry on the Guadiaro, where there was a boat, and from thence we could make our way to San Roque, which is in sight of Gibraltar.  He demanded rather a large fee for accompanying me, but there was nothing else to be done.  Jose and I sat down in great tribulation to our accustomed olla, but neither of us could do justice to it, and the greater part gladdened the landlord’s two boys—­beautiful little imps, with faces like Murillo’s cherubs.

Nevertheless, I passed rather a merry evening, chatting with some of the villagers over a brazier of coals; and one of the aforesaid boys, who, although only eight years old, already performed the duties of mozo, lighted me to my loft.  When he had put down the lamp, he tried’ the door, and asked me:  “Have you the key?” “No,” said I, “I don’t want one; I am not afraid.”  “But,” he rejoined, “perhaps you may get afraid in the night; and if you do, strike on this part of the wall (suiting the action to the word)—­I sleep on that side.”  I willingly promised to call him to my aid, if I should get alarmed.  I slept but little, for the wind was howling around the tiles over my head, and I was busy with plans for constructing rafts and swimming currents with a rope around my waist.  Finally, I found a little oblivion, but it seemed that I had scarcely closed my eyes, when Jose pushed open the door.  “Thanks be to God, senor!” said he, “it begins to dawn, and the sky is clear:  we shall certainly get to Gibraltar to-day.”

The landlord was ready, so we took some bread and a basket of olives, and set out at once.  Leaving Gaucin, we commenced descending the mountain staircase by which the Serrania of Ronda is scaled, on the side towards Gibraltar.  “The road,” says Mr. Ford, “seems made by the Evil One in a hanging garden of Eden.”  After four miles of frightfully rugged descent, we reached an orange grove on the banks of the Xenar, and then took a wild path leading