We were soon in an extremely wild and hilly country, scrambling up and down ravines, wading brooks, and scratching our hands and faces with brambles, on which grew a plentiful crop of wild mulberries, to gather some of which we occasionally made a stop.  Owing to the roughness of the way we made no great progress.  The pony followed close at the back of the guide, so near, indeed, that its nose almost touched his shoulder.  The country grew wilder and wilder, and since we had passed a water mill, we had lost all trace of human habitation.  The mill stood at the bottom of a valley shaded by large trees, and its wheels were turning with a dismal and monotonous noise.  “Do you think we shall reach Corcuvion to-night?” said I to the guide, as we emerged from this valley to a savage moor, which appeared of almost boundless extent.

Guide.—­I do not, I do not.  We shall in no manner reach Corcuvion to-night, and I by no means like the appearance of this moor.  The sun is rapidly sinking, and then, if there come on a haze, we shall meet the Estadea.

Myself.—­What do you mean by the Estadea?

Guide.—­What do I mean by the Estadea?  My master asks me what I mean by the Estadinha. {17} I have met the Estadinha but once, and it was upon a moor something like this.  I was in company with several women, and a thick haze came on, and suddenly a thousand lights shone above our heads in the haze, and there was a wild cry, and the women fell to the ground screaming Estadea!  Estadea! and I myself fell to the ground crying out Estadinha!  The Estadea are the spirits of the dead which ride upon the haze, bearing candles in their hands.  I tell you frankly, my master, that if we meet the assembly of the souls, I shall leave you at once, and then I shall run and run till I drown myself in the sea, somewhere about Muros.  We shall not reach Corcuvion this night; my only hope is that we may find some choza upon these moors, where we may hide our heads from the Estadinha.

The night overtook us ere we had traversed the moor; there was, however, no haze, to the great joy of my guide, and a corner of the moon partially illumined our steps.  Our situation, however, was dreary enough:  we were upon the wildest heath of the wildest province of Spain, ignorant of our way, and directing our course we scarcely knew whither, for my guide repeatedly declared to me, that he did not believe that such a place as Finisterra existed, or if it did exist, it was some bleak mountain pointed out in a map.  When I reflected on the character of this guide, I derived but little comfort or encouragement:  he was at best evidently half witted, and was by his own confession occasionally seized with paroxysms which differed from madness in no essential respect; his wild escapade in the morning of nearly three leagues, without any apparent cause, and lastly his superstitious and frantic fears of meeting the souls of the dead upon this heath, in which event he intended, as he