fall; the townsmen were fast deserting it. A Carlist band had announced its arrival. My guide could go no farther, his pass not permitting him to leave the town. A league farther on the horses would be seized and himself arrested.
"I must leave you," he said, "but I am very sorry for it. I know my old comrades well; and may the holy Virgin keep you from falling into their hands."
"My nationality protects me," I exclaimed; "I fear neither Carlist nor Christino."
"Your being a Frenchman will not avail you, for— for— for—" The good man, hesitating for a while, added, "For you will probably be hung off hand."
This did not startle me much; I knew, if my life were in peril, I should find a secure retreat in the house of the mother of poor Don Jaime, who had once been a Carlist officer. The mountaineer, who could not account for my coolness, shook me by the hand and said,
"You are a brave fellow, by heavens! and I hope they will shoot rather than hang you."
The ex-Carlist quitted me. I left my valise at an inn, and, after learning the direction of the castle of Tronera, a place which every body seemed to know, set out on foot. It was about three quarters of a mile from the town. The castle of Villalobos, as I expected, was a gloomy enough place, and the wind was whistling in the angles of the crumbling turrets with a noise which sounded to me like the drums of a Carlist band. Flocks of swallows were darting in and out of some apertures in the loose tiles on the roof. The shutters were all closed; some scaffolding, however, raised at different parts of the building, showed that repairs had been begun, but had been interrupted.
