shouting the old Spanish cry, Cierra!  I attempted to keep up with him, but had not a chance.  “I call him the flower of Spain,” said the herrador, rejoining me.  “Purchase him, Don Jorge, his price is but three thousand reals. {19} I would not sell him for double that sum, but the Carlist thieves have their eyes upon him, and I am apprehensive that they will some day make a dash across the river and break into Villa Seca, all to get possession of my horse, ‘The Flower of Spain.’”

It may be as well to observe here, that within a month from this period, my friend the herrador, not being able to find a regular purchaser for his steed, entered into negotiations with the aforesaid thieves respecting him, and finally disposed of the animal to their leader, receiving not the three thousand reals he demanded, but an entire herd of horned cattle, probably driven from the plains of La Mancha.  For this transaction, which was neither more nor less than high treason, he was cast into the prison of Toledo, where, however, he did not continue long; for during a short visit to Villa Seca, which I made in the spring of the following year, I found him alcalde of that “republic.”

We arrived at the bridge of Azeca, which is about half a league from Villa Seca; close beside it is a large water-mill, standing upon a dam which crosses the river.  Dismounting from his steed, the herrador proceeded to divest it of the saddle, then causing it to enter the mill-pool, he led it by means of a cord to a particular spot, where the water reached half way up its neck, then fastening a cord to a post on the bank, he left the animal standing in the pool.  I thought I could do no better than follow his example, and accordingly procuring a rope from the mill, I led my own horse into the water.  “It will refresh their blood, Don Jorge,” said the herrador; “let us leave them there for an hour, whilst we go and divert ourselves.”

Near the bridge, on the side of the river on which we were, was a kind of guard-house, where were three carbineers of the revenue, who collected the tolls of the bridge; we entered into conversation with them:  “Is not this a dangerous position of yours,” said I to one of them, who was a Catalan; “close beside the factious country?  Surely it would not be difficult for a body of the Carlinos or bandits to dash across the bridge and make prisoners of you all.”

“It would be easy enough at any moment, Cavalier,” replied the Catalan; “we are, however, all in the hands of God, and he has preserved us hitherto, and perhaps still will.  True it is that one of our number, for there were four of us originally, fell the other day into the hands of the canaille:  he had wandered across the bridge amongst the thickets with his gun in search of a hare or rabbit, when three or four of them fell upon him and put him to death in a manner too horrible to relate.  But patience! every man who lives must die.  I shall not sleep