of the darkness was too much for him.  His horse seemed to be infected with the same panic, for it shook in every limb.  I now told him to call on the name of the Lord Jesus, who was able to turn the darkness into light, but he gave a terrible shout, and, brandishing his gun aloft, discharged it in the air.  His horse sprang forward at full speed, and my mule, which was one of the swiftest of its kind, took fright and followed at the heels of the charger.  Antonio and the boy were left behind.  On we flew like a whirlwind, the hoofs of the animals illuming the path with the sparks of fire they struck from the stones.  I knew not whither we were going, but the dumb creatures were acquainted with the way, and soon brought us to Vendas Novas, where we were rejoined by our companions.

I thought this man was a coward, but I did him injustice, for during the day he was as brave as a lion, and feared no one.  About five years since, he had overcome two robbers who had attacked him on the moors, and, after tying their hands behind them, had delivered them up to justice; but at night the rustling of a leaf filled him with terror.  I have known similar instances of the kind in persons of otherwise extraordinary resolution.  For myself, I confess I am not a person of extraordinary resolution, but the dangers of the night daunt me no more than those of midday.  The man in question was a farmer from Evora, and a person of considerable wealth.

I found the inn at Vendas Novas thronged with people, and had some difficulty in obtaining accommodation and refreshment.  It was occupied by the family of a certain Fidalgo, from Estremoz; he was on the way to Lisbon, conveying a large sum of money, as was said—­ probably the rents of his estates.  He had with him a body guard of four-and-twenty of his dependants, each armed with a rifle; they consisted of his swineherds, shepherds, cowherds, and hunters, and were commanded by two youths, his son and nephew, the latter of whom was in regimentals; nevertheless, notwithstanding the number of his troop, it appeared that the Fidalgo laboured under considerable apprehension of being despoiled upon the waste which lay between Vendas Novas and Pegoens, as he had just requested a guard of four soldiers from the officer who commanded a detachment stationed here:  there were many females in his company, who, I was told, were his illegitimate daughters—­for he bore an infamous moral character, and was represented to me as a staunch friend of Don Miguel.  It was not long before he came up to me and my new acquaintance, as we sat by the kitchen fire:  he was a tall man of about sixty, but stooped much.  His countenance was by no means pleasing:  he had a long hooked nose, small twinkling cunning eyes, and, what I liked worst of all, a continual sneering smile, which I firmly believe to be the index of a treacherous and malignant heart.  He addressed me in Spanish, which, as he resided not far from the frontier, he spoke with fluency, but contrary to my usual practice, I was reserved and silent.