I then, with another bow, presented my passport to the alcalde, who, with a gentle motion of his hand, appeared to decline taking it, at the same time saying, “It is not necessary.”  “Oh, not at all,” exclaimed the surgeon.  “The housekeepers of Villa Seca know how to comport themselves with formality,” observed the blacksmith.  “They would be very loth to harbour any suspicion against a cavalier so courteous and well spoken.”  Knowing, however, that this refusal amounted to nothing, and that it merely formed part of a polite ceremonial, I proffered the passport a second time, whereupon it was instantly taken, and in a moment the eyes of all present were bent upon it with intense curiosity.  It was examined from top to bottom, and turned round repeatedly, and though it is not probable that an individual present understood a word of it, it being written in French, it gave nevertheless universal satisfaction; and when the alcalde, carefully folding it up, returned it to me, they all observed that they had never seen a better passport in their lives, or one which spake in higher terms of the bearer.

Who was it said that “Cervantes sneered Spain’s chivalry away?” I know not; and the author of such a line scarcely deserves to be remembered.  How the rage for scribbling tempts people at the present day to write about lands and nations of which they know nothing, or worse than nothing.  Vaya!  It is not from having seen a bull-fight at Seville or Madrid, or having spent a handful of ounces at a posada in either of those places, kept perhaps by a Genoese or a Frenchman, that you are competent to write about such a people as the Spaniards, and to tell the world how they think, how they speak, and how they act!  Spain’s chivalry sneered away!  Why, there is every probability that the great body of the Spanish nation speak, think, and live precisely as their forefathers did six centuries ago.

In the evening the blacksmith, or, as he would be called in Spanish, El Herrador, made his appearance at the door of Lopez on horseback.  “Vamos, Don Jorge,” he shouted.  “Come with me, if your worship is disposed for a ride.  I am going to bathe my horse in the Tagus by the bridge of Azeca.”  I instantly saddled my jaca Cordovesa, and joining him, we rode out of the village, directing our course across the plain towards the river.  “Did you ever see such a horse as this of mine, Don Jorge?” he demanded.  “Is he not a jewel—­an alaja?” And in truth the horse was a noble and gallant creature, in height at least sixteen hands, broad-chested, but of clean and elegant limbs.  His neck was superbly arched, and his head towered on high like that of a swan.  In colour he was a bright chestnut, save his flowing mane and tail, which were almost black.  I expressed my admiration, whereupon the herrador, in high spirits, pressed his heels to the creature’s sides, and flinging the bridle on its neck, speeded over the plain with prodigious swiftness,