conversation, I sat down on a stone, awaiting the arrival of Antonio, who was long in making his appearance.  On his arrival, I asked if any one had passed him on the road, but he replied that he had seen nothing.  The night, or rather the morning, was still very dark, though a small corner of the moon was occasionally visible.  On our inquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet directed us down a street to the left, which we followed.  The street was steep, we could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by houses and wall.  We knocked at the gates of two or three of these houses (in the upper stories of which lights were burning), for the purpose of being set right, but we were either disregarded or not heard.  A horrid squalling of cats, from the tops of the houses and dark corners, saluted our ears, and I thought of the night arrival of Don Quixote and his squire at Toboso, and their vain search amongst the deserted streets for the palace of Dulcinea.  At length we saw light and heard voices in a cottage at the other side of a kind of ditch.  Leading the horses over, we called at the door, which was opened by an aged man, who appeared by his dress to be a baker, as indeed he proved, which accounted for his being up at so late an hour.  On begging him to show us the way into the town, he led us up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying that he would likewise conduct us to the posada.

The alley led directly to what appeared to be the market-place, at a corner house of which our guide stopped and knocked.  After a long pause an upper window was opened, and a female voice demanded who we were.  The old man replied, that two travellers had arrived who were in need of lodging.  “I cannot be disturbed at this time of night,” said the woman; “they will be wanting supper, and there is nothing in the house; they must go elsewhere.”  She was going to shut the window, but I cried that we wanted no supper, but merely resting place for ourselves and horses—­that we had come that day from Astorga, and were dying with fatigue.  “Who is that speaking?” cried the woman.  “Surely that is the voice of Gil, the German clock-maker from Pontevedra.  Welcome, old companion; you are come at the right time, for my own is out of order.  I am sorry I have kept you waiting, but I will admit you in a moment.”

The window was slammed to, presently a light shone through the crevices of the door, a key turned in the lock, and we were admitted.

CHAPTER XXV

Villafranca—­The Pass—­Gallegan Simplicity—­The Frontier Guard—­The Horse-shoe—­Gallegan Peculiarities—­A Word on Language—­The Courier—­Wretched Cabins—­Host and Guests—­Andalusians.

“Ave Maria,” said the woman; “whom have we here?  This is not Gil the clock-maker.”  “Whether it be Gil or Juan,” said I, “we are in need of your hospitality, and can pay for it.”  Our first care was to stable the horses, who were much exhausted.  We then went in search of some accommodation for ourselves.  The house was large and commodious, and having tasted a little water, I stretched myself on the floor of one of the rooms on some mattresses which the woman produced, and in less than a minute was sound asleep.