“He may be coming down the road this moment,” said I, “for what I know;” and, stepping out, I looked up the way.

The two figures were at my side in a moment; Antonio followed, and we all four looked intently up the road.

“Do you see anything?” said I at last to Antonio.

“Non, mon maitre.”

“Do you see anything, sir?” said I to the curate.

“I see nothing,” said the curate, stretching out his neck.

“I see nothing,” said Pedro, the ex-friar; “I see nothing but the dust, which is becoming every moment more blinding.”

“I shall go in, then,” said I.  “Indeed, it is scarcely prudent to be standing here looking out for the Pretender:  should the nationals of the town hear of it, they might perhaps shoot us.”

“Ahem,” said the curate, following me; “there are no nationals in this place:  I would fain see what inhabitant would dare become a national.  When the inhabitants of this place were ordered to take up arms as nationals, they refused to a man, and on that account we had to pay a mulet; therefore, friend, you may speak out if you have anything to communicate; we are all of your opinion here.”

“I am of no opinion at all,” said I, “save that I want my supper.  I am neither for Rey nor Roque.  You say that I am a Catalan, and you know that Catalans think only of their own affairs.”

In the evening I strolled by myself about the village, which I found still more forlorn and melancholy than it at first appeared; perhaps, however, it had been a place of consequence in its time.  In one corner of it I found the ruins of a large clumsy castle, chiefly built of flint stones:  into these ruins I attempted to penetrate, but the entrance was secured by a gate.  From the castle I found my way to the convent, a sad desolate place, formerly the residence of mendicant brothers of the order of St. Francis.  I was about to return to the inn, when I heard a loud buzz of voices, and, following the sound, presently reached a kind of meadow, where, upon a small knoll, sat a priest in full canonicals, reading in a loud voice a newspaper, while around him, either erect or seated on the grass, were assembled about fifty vecinos, for the most part dressed in long cloaks, amongst whom I discovered my two friends the curate and friar.  A fine knot of Carlist quid-nuncs, said I to myself, and turned away to another part of the meadow, where the cattle of the village were grazing.  The curate, on observing me, detached himself instantly from the group, and followed.  “I am told you want a pony,” said he; “there now is mine feeding amongst those horses, the best in all the kingdom of Leon.”  He then began with all the volubility of a chalan to descant on the points of the animal.  Presently the friar joined us, who, observing his opportunity, pulled me by the sleeve and whispered, “Have nothing to do with the curate, master, he is the greatest thief in the neighbourhood; if you want a pony, my brother has a much better, which he will dispose of cheaper.”  “I shall wait till I arrive at Leon,” I exclaimed, and walked away, musing on priestly friendship and sincerity.