We passed through the entire length of the town ere we reached the posada; the streets were dark and almost entirely deserted.  The posada was a large building, the windows of which were well fenced with rejas, or iron grating:  no light gleamed from them, and the silence of death not only seemed to pervade the house, but the street in which it was situated.  We knocked for a long time at the gate without receiving any answer; we then raised our voices and shouted.  At last some one from within inquired what we wanted.  “Open the door and you will see,” we replied.  “I shall do no such thing,” answered the individual from within, “until I know who you are.”  “We are travellers,” said I, “from Seville.”  “Travellers, are you,” said the voice; “why did you not tell me so before?  I am not porter at this house to keep out travellers.  Jesus Maria knows we have not so many of them that we need repulse any.  Enter, cavalier, and welcome, you and your company.”

He opened the gate and admitted us into a spacious courtyard, and then forthwith again secured the gate with various bolts and bars.  “Are you afraid that the Carlists should pay you a visit,” I demanded, “that you take so much precaution?” “It is not the Carlists we are afraid of,” replied the porter; “they have been here already, and did us no damage whatever.  It is certain scoundrels of this town that we are afraid of, who have a spite against the master of the house, and would murder both him and his family, could they but find an opportunity.”

I was about to inquire the cause of this enmity, when a thick bulky man, bearing a light in his hand, came running down a stone staircase, which led into the interior of the building.  Two or three females, also bearing lights, followed him.  He stopped on the lowest stair.  “Whom have we here?” he exclaimed; then advancing the lamp which he bore, the light fell full upon my face.  “Ola!” he exclaimed; “Is it you?  Only think,” said he, turning to the female who stood next him, a dark-featured person, stout as himself, and about his own age, which might border upon fifty; “Only think, my dear, that at the very moment we were wishing for a guest an Englishman should be standing before our doors; for I should know an Englishman at a mile’s distance, even in the dark.  Juanito,” cried he to the porter, “open not the gate any more to-night, whoever may ask for admission.  Should the nationals come to make any disturbance, tell them that the son of Belington (Wellington) is in the house ready to attack them sword in hand unless they retire; and should other travellers arrive, which is not likely, inasmuch as we have seen none for a month past, say that we have no room, all our apartments being occupied by an English gentleman and his company.”