“True, your worship,” replied Martin; “and perhaps on that very account there are no hermitages in the barrancos of the seven bellotas.  Our hermits had little inclination for roots and water, and had no kind of objection to be occasionally disturbed in their meditations.  Vaya!  I never yet saw a hermitage that was not hard by some rich town or village, or was not a regular resort for all the idle people in the neighbourhood.  Hermits are not fond of living in dingles, amongst wolves and foxes; for how in that case could they dispose of their poultry?  A hermit of my acquaintance left, when he died, a fortune of seven hundred dollars to his niece, the greatest part of which he scraped up by fattening turkeys.”

At the top of this bellota we found a wretched venta, where we refreshed ourselves, and then continued our journey.  Late in the afternoon we cleared the last of these difficult passes.  The wind began now to rise, bearing on its wings a drizzling rain.  We passed by Soto Luino, and shaping our course through a wild but picturesque country, we found ourselves about nightfall at the foot of a steep hill, up which led a narrow bridle-way, amidst a grove of lofty trees.  Long before we had reached the top it had become quite dark, and the rain had increased considerably.  We stumbled along in the obscurity, leading our horses, which were occasionally down on their knees, owing to the slipperiness of the path.  At last we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing briskly forward, we found ourselves, in about half an hour, at the entrance of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity of the farther side of the hill.

A blazing fire in the posada soon dried our wet garments, and in some degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had undergone in scrambling up the bellotas.  A rather singular place was this same posada of Muros.  It was a large rambling house, with a spacious kitchen, or common room, on the ground floor.  Above stairs was a large dining-apartment, with an immense oak table, and furnished with cumbrous leathern chairs with high backs, apparently three centuries old at least.  Communicating with this apartment was a wooden gallery, open to the air, which led to a small chamber, in which I was destined to sleep, and which contained an old-fashioned tester-bed with curtains.  It was just one of those inns which romance writers are so fond of introducing in their descriptions, especially when the scene of adventure lies in Spain.  The host was a talkative Asturian.

The wind still howled, and the rain descended in torrents.  I sat before the fire in a very drowsy state, from which I was presently aroused by the conversation of the host.  “Senor,” said he, “it is now three years since I beheld foreigners in my house.  I remember it was about this time of the year, and just such a night as this, that two men on horseback arrived here.  What was singular, they came without any guide.  Two more strange-looking