“I trust they are,” said Cranfield, with a sneer.  “But there is already an obvious difference observable here in the people, which becomes more marked as you proceed toward Castile.  The Spaniard is taller and yet leaner than the Portuguese.  He has a more expressive countenance, a striking sedateness of carriage, and a settled gravity of manner, especially when silent, which makes him seem wiser than he is.  With much elegance of form, his meagre person shows that he is the denizen of a dry climate, which, every Spaniard will tell you, gives a peculiar compactness of structure to all its products:  the wheat of Spain makes more bread, its beef and mutton are more nourishing, its wines have more body, and the men more enduring vigor than those of other countries.  Certain it is that Spanish troops have often proved great marchers; yet of all nations they have the slenderest legs, and indeed they never use their own when they can substitute those of horse, mule, or burro.”

“The heat of the climate discourages exercise on foot,” said Lady Mabel.

“Or labor of any kind,” said Cranfield.  “The universal cloak sufficiently proves that they are not a working people.”

“And imperfectly conceals that they are a ragged one,” said she.  “Had I old Moodie at my elbow, he would remind me that ’drowsiness shall clothe a man in rags.’”

Observing Cranfield gazing round the square with much interest, she said:  “You must be quite familiar with this place.”

“I shall never forget the occasion on which I saw it first,” he answered.  “I was one of two engineers attached on the assault to General Walker’s brigade.  While Picton was scaling the castle walls, and crowds of our brave fellows were dying in the breaches, we succeeded in forcing our way into the place over the bastion of San Vincente.  Hard work we had of it, and the fight did not end there; for the enemy stubbornly disputed bastion after bastion on our flank, and our commander fell on the ramparts covered with so many wounds that his living seemed a miracle.  The detachment I was with pushed forward into the town.  The streets were empty, but brilliantly illuminated, and no person was to be seen; yet a low buzz and whisper was heard around; lattices were now and then opened, and from time to time shots were fired from underneath the doors by the Spaniards—­”

“The French, you mean,” said Lady Mabel.

“No; the Spaniards,” persisted Cranfield.  “And perhaps our talking friend there was one of them.”

“Don Alonso is an Andalusian and a patriot,” said Lady Mabel; “and I will not have him so traduced.”