After supper I roamed about the village.  I addressed two or three labourers whom I found standing at their doors; they appeared, however, exceedingly reserved, and with a gruff “buenas noches” turned into their houses without inviting me to enter.  I at last found my way to the church porch, where I continued some time in meditation.  At last I bethought myself of retiring to rest; before departing, however, I took out and affixed to the porch of the church an advertisement to the effect that the New Testament was to be purchased at Salamanca.  On returning to the house, I found the two travelling merchants enjoying profound slumber on various mantas or mule-cloths stretched on the floor.  “You are a French merchant, I suppose, Caballero,” said a man, who it seemed was the master of the house, and whom I had not before seen.  “You are a French merchant, I suppose, and are on the way to the fair of Medina.”  “I am neither Frenchman nor merchant,” I replied, “and though I purpose passing through Medina, it is not with the view of attending the fair.”  “Then you are one of the Irish Christians from Salamanca, Caballero,” said the man; “I hear you come from that town.”  “Why do you call them Irish Christians?” I replied.  “Are there pagans in their country?” “We call them Christians,” said the man, “to distinguish them from the Irish English, who are worse than pagans, who are Jews and heretics.”  I made no answer, but passed on to the room which had been prepared for me, and from which, the door being ajar, I heard the following conversation passing between the innkeeper and his wife:-

Innkeeper.—­Muger, it appears to me that we have evil guests in the house.

Wife.—­You mean the last comers, the Caballero and his servant.  Yes, I never saw worse countenances in my life.

Innkeeper.—­I do not like the servant, and still less the master.  He has neither formality nor politeness:  he tells me that he is not French, and when I spoke to him of the Irish Christians, he did not seem to belong to them.  I more than suspect that he is a heretic or a Jew at least.

Wife.—­Perhaps they are both.  Maria Santissima! what shall we do to purify the house when they are gone?

Innkeeper.—­O, as for that matter, we must of course charge it in the cuenta.

I slept soundly, and rather late in the morning arose and breakfasted, and paid the bill, in which, by its extravagance, I found the purification had not been forgotten.  The travelling merchants had departed at daybreak.  We now led forth the horses, and mounted; there were several people at the door staring at us.  “What is the meaning of this?” said I to Antonio.

“It is whispered that we are no Christians,” said Antonio; “they have come to cross themselves at our departure.”

In effect, the moment that we rode forward a dozen hands at least were busied in this evil-averting ceremony.  Antonio instantly turned and crossed himself in the Greek fashion,—­much more complex and difficult than the Catholic.