CHAPTER I

I had always suspected the geographical authorities did not know what

they were talking about when they located the battlefield of Munda in

the county of the Bastuli-Poeni, close to the modern Monda, some two

leagues north of Marbella.

According to my own surmise, founded on the text of the anonymous author

of the _Bellum Hispaniense_, and on certain information culled from the

excellent library owned by the Duke of Ossuna, I believed the site of

the memorable struggle in which Caesar played double or quits, once and

for all, with the champions of the Republic, should be sought in the

neighbourhood of Montilla.

Happening to be in Andalusia during the autumn of 1830, I made a

somewhat lengthy excursion, with the object of clearing up certain

doubts which still oppressed me. A paper which I shall shortly publish

will, I trust, remove any hesitation that may still exist in the minds

of all honest archaeologists. But before that dissertation of mine

finally settles the geographical problem on the solution of which the

whole of learned Europe hangs, I desire to relate a little tale. It will

do no prejudice to the interesting question of the correct locality of

Monda.

I had hired a guide and a couple of horses at Cordova, and had

started on my way with no luggage save a few shirts, and Caesar’s

_Commentaries_. As I wandered, one day, across the higher lands of the

Cachena plain, worn with fatigue, parched with thirst, scorched by a

burning sun, cursing Caesar and Pompey’s sons alike, most heartily, my

eye lighted, at some distance from the path I was following, on a little

stretch of green sward dotted with reeds and rushes. That betokened the

neighbourhood of some spring, and, indeed, as I drew nearer I perceived

that what had looked like sward was a marsh, into which a stream, which

seemed to issue from a narrow gorge between two high spurs of the Sierra

di Cabra, ran and disappeared.

If I rode up that stream, I argued, I was likely to find cooler water,

fewer leeches and frogs, and mayhap a little shade among the rocks.

At the mouth of the gorge, my horse neighed, and another horse,

invisible to me, neighed back. Before I had advanced a hundred paces,

the gorge suddenly widened, and I beheld a sort of natural amphitheatre,

thoroughly shaded by the steep cliffs that lay all around it. It was

impossible to imagine any more delightful halting place for a traveller.

At the foot of the precipitous rocks, the stream bubbled upward and fell

into a little basin, lined with sand that was as white as snow. Five or

six splendid evergreen oaks, sheltered from the wind, and cooled by the

spring, grew beside the pool, and shaded it with their thick foliage.

And round about it a close and glossy turf offered the wanderer a better

bed than he could have found in any hostelry for ten leagues round.

The honour of discovering this fair spot did not belong to me. A man was

resting there already--sleeping, no doubt--before I reached it. Roused

by the neighing of the horses, he had risen to his feet and had moved

over to his mount, which had been taking advantage of its master’s

slumbers to make a hearty feed on the grass that grew around. He was an

active young fellow, of middle height, but powerful in build, and proud

and sullen-looking in expression. His complexion, which may once have

been fine, had been tanned by the sun till it was darker than his hair.

One of his hands grasped his horse’s halter. In the other he held a

brass blunderbuss.

At the first blush, I confess, the blunderbuss, and the savage looks

of the man who bore it, somewhat took me aback. But I had heard so much

about robbers, that, never seeing any, I had ceased to believe in their

existence. And further, I had seen so many honest farmers arm themselves

to the teeth before they went out to market, that the sight of firearms

gave me no warrant for doubting the character of any stranger. “And

then,” quoth I to myself, “what could he do with my shirts and my

Elzevir edition of Caesar’s _Commentaries_?” So I bestowed a friendly

nod on the man with the blunderbuss, and inquired, with a smile, whether

I had disturbed his nap. Without any answer, he looked me over from

head to foot. Then, as if the scrutiny had satisfied him, he looked as

closely at my guide, who was just coming up. I saw the guide turn pale,

and pull up with an air of evident alarm. “An unlucky meeting!” thought

I to myself. But prudence instantly counselled me not to let any symptom

of anxiety escape me. So I dismounted. I told the guide to take off the

horses’ bridles, and kneeling down beside the spring, I laved my head

and hands and then drank a long draught, lying flat on my belly, like

Gideon’s soldiers.

Meanwhile, I watched the stranger, and my own guide. This last seemed to

come forward unwillingly. But the other did not appear to have any evil

designs upon us. For he had turned his horse loose, and the blunderbuss,

which he had been holding horizontally, was now dropped earthward.

Not thinking it necessary to take offence at the scant attention paid

me, I stretched myself full length upon the grass, and calmly asked the

owner of the blunderbuss whether he had a light about him. At the same

time I pulled out my cigar-case. The stranger, still without opening his

lips, took out his flint, and lost no time in getting me a light. He was

evidently growing tamer, for he sat down opposite to me, though he still

grasped his weapon. When I had lighted my cigar, I chose out the best I

had left, and asked him whether he smoked.

“Yes, senor,” he replied. These were the first words I had heard him

speak, and I noticed that he did not pronounce the letter _s_* in the

Andalusian fashion, whence I concluded he was a traveller, like myself,

though, maybe, somewhat less of an archaeologist.

* The Andalusians aspirate the _s_, and pronounce it like

the soft _c_ and the _z_, which Spaniards pronounce like the

English _th_. An Andalusian may always be recognised by the

way in which he says _senor_.

“You’ll find this a fairly good one,” said I, holding out a real Havana

regalia.

He bowed his head slightly, lighted his cigar at mine, thanked me

with another nod, and began to smoke with a most lively appearance of

enjoyment.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as he blew his first puff of smoke slowly out of his

mouth and nostrils. “What a time it is since I’ve had a smoke!”

In Spain the giving and accepting of a cigar establishes bonds of

hospitality similar to those founded in Eastern countries on the

partaking of bread and salt. My friend turned out more talkative than

I had hoped. However, though he claimed to belong to the _partido_ of

Montilla, he seemed very ill-informed about the country. He did not know

the name of the delightful valley in which we were sitting, he could

not tell me the names of any of the neighbouring villages, and when I

inquired whether he had not noticed any broken-down walls, broad-rimmed

tiles, or carved stones in the vicinity, he confessed he had never paid

any heed to such matters. On the other hand, he showed himself an expert

in horseflesh, found fault with my mount--not a difficult affair--and

gave me a pedigree of his own, which had come from the famous stud at

Cordova. It was a splendid creature, indeed, so tough, according to

its owner’s claim, that it had once covered thirty leagues in one day,

either at the gallop or at full trot the whole time. In the midst of his

story the stranger pulled up short, as if startled and sorry he had said

so much. “The fact is I was in a great hurry to get to Cordova,” he

went on, somewhat embarrassed. “I had to petition the judges about a

lawsuit.” As he spoke, he looked at my guide Antonio, who had dropped

his eyes.

The spring and the cool shade were so delightful that I bethought me

of certain slices of an excellent ham, which my friends at Montilla had

packed into my guide’s wallet. I bade him produce them, and invited the

stranger to share our impromptu lunch. If he had not smoked for a long

time, he certainly struck me as having fasted for eight-and-forty hours

at the very least. He ate like a starving wolf, and I thought to myself

that my appearance must really have been quite providential for the poor

fellow. Meanwhile my guide ate but little, drank still less, and spoke

never a word, although in the earlier part of our journey he had proved

himself a most unrivalled chatterer. He seemed ill at ease in the

presence of our guest, and a sort of mutual distrust, the cause of which

I could not exactly fathom, seemed to be between them.

The last crumbs of bread and scraps of ham had disappeared. We had each

smoked our second cigar; I told the guide to bridle the horses, and was

just about to take leave of my new friend, when he inquired where I was

going to spend the night.

Before I had time to notice a sign my guide was making to me I had

replied that I was going to the Venta del Cuervo.

“That’s a bad lodging for a gentleman like you, sir! I’m bound there

myself, and if you’ll allow me to ride with you, we’ll go together.”

“With pleasure!” I replied, mounting my horse. The guide, who was

holding my stirrup, looked at me meaningly again. I answered by

shrugging my shoulders, as though to assure him I was perfectly easy in

my mind, and we started on our way.

Antonio’s mysterious signals, his evident anxiety, a few words dropped

by the stranger, above all, his ride of thirty leagues, and the far from

plausible explanation he had given us of it, had already enabled me

to form an opinion as to the identity of my fellow-traveller. I had

no doubt at all I was in the company of a smuggler, and possibly of a

brigand. What cared I? I knew enough of the Spanish character to be very

certain I had nothing to fear from a man who had eaten and smoked

with me. His very presence would protect me in case of any undesirable

meeting. And besides, I was very glad to know what a brigand was really

like. One doesn’t come across such gentry every day. And there is a

certain charm about finding one’s self in close proximity to a dangerous

being, especially when one feels the being in question to be gentle and

tame.

I was hoping the stranger might gradually fall into a confidential

mood, and in spite of my guide’s winks, I turned the conversation to

the subject of highwaymen. I need scarcely say that I spoke of them with

great respect. At that time there was a famous brigand in Andalusia, of

the name of Jose-Maria, whose exploits were on every lip. “Supposing I

should be riding along with Jose-Maria!” said I to myself. I told all

the stories I knew about the hero--they were all to his credit, indeed,

and loudly expressed my admiration of his generosity and his valour.

“Jose-Maria is nothing but a blackguard,” said the stranger gravely.

“Is he just to himself, or is this an excess of modesty?” I queried,

mentally, for by dint of scrutinizing my companion, I had ended by

reconciling his appearance with the description of Jose-Maria which I

read posted up on the gates of various Andalusian towns. “Yes, this must

be he--fair hair, blue eyes, large mouth, good teeth, small hands, fine

shirt, a velvet jacket with silver buttons on it, white leather gaiters,

and a bay horse. Not a doubt about it. But his _incognito_ shall be

respected!” We reached the _venta_. It was just what he had described

to me. In other words, the most wretched hole of its kind I had as yet

beheld. One large apartment served as kitchen, dining-room, and sleeping

chamber. A fire was burning on a flat stone in the middle of the room,

and the smoke escaped through a hole in the roof, or rather hung in a

cloud some feet above the soil. Along the walls five or six mule rugs

were spread on the floor. These were the travellers’ beds. Twenty paces

from the house, or rather from the solitary apartment which I have just

described, stood a sort of shed, that served for a stable.

The only inhabitants of this delightful dwelling visible at the moment,

at all events, were an old woman, and a little girl of ten or twelve

years old, both of them as black as soot, and dressed in loathsome rags.

“Here’s the sole remnant of the ancient populations of Munda Boetica,”

said I to myself. “O Caesar! O Sextus Pompeius, if you were to revisit

this earth how astounded you would be!”

When the old woman saw my travelling companion an exclamation of

surprise escaped her. “Ah! Senor Don Jose!” she cried.

Don Jose frowned and lifted his hand with a gesture of authority that

forthwith silenced the old dame.

I turned to my guide and gave him to understand, by a sign that no one

else perceived, that I knew all about the man in whose company I was

about to spend the night. Our supper was better than I expected. On

a little table, only a foot high, we were served with an old rooster,

fricasseed with rice and numerous peppers, then more peppers in oil,

and finally a _gaspacho_--a sort of salad made of peppers. These three

highly spiced dishes involved our frequent recourse to a goatskin filled

with Montella wine, which struck us as being delicious.

After our meal was over, I caught sight of a mandolin hanging up against

the wall--in Spain you see mandolins in every corner--and I asked the

little girl, who had been waiting on us, if she knew how to play it.

“No,” she replied. “But Don Jose does play well!”

“Do me the kindness to sing me something,” I said to him, “I’m

passionately fond of your national music.”

“I can’t refuse to do anything for such a charming gentleman, who gives

me such excellent cigars,” responded Don Jose gaily, and having made

the child give him the mandolin, he sang to his own accompaniment. His

voice, though rough, was pleasing, the air he sang was strange and sad.

As to the words, I could not understand a single one of them.

“If I am not mistaken,” said I, “that’s not a Spanish air you have just

been singing. It’s like the _zorzicos_ I’ve heard in the Provinces,* and

the words must be in the Basque language.”

* The _privileged Provinces_, Alava, Biscay, Guipuzcoa, and a part of

Navarre, which all enjoy special _fueros_. The Basque language is spoken

in these countries.

“Yes,” said Don Jose, with a gloomy look. He laid the mandolin down on

the ground, and began staring with a peculiarly sad expression at the

dying fire. His face, at once fierce and noble-looking, reminded me,

as the firelight fell on it, of Milton’s Satan. Like him, perchance,

my comrade was musing over the home he had forfeited, the exile he had

earned, by some misdeed. I tried to revive the conversation, but so

absorbed was he in melancholy thought, that he gave me no answer.

The old woman had already gone to rest in a corner of the room, behind

a ragged rug hung on a rope. The little girl had followed her into this

retreat, sacred to the fair sex. Then my guide rose, and suggested that

I should go with him to the stable. But at the word Don Jose, waking, as

it were, with a start, inquired sharply whither he was going.

“To the stable,” answered the guide.

“What for? The horses have been fed! You can sleep here. The senor will

give you leave.”

“I’m afraid the senor’s horse is sick. I’d like the senor to see it.

Perhaps he’d know what should be done for it.”

It was quite clear to me that Antonio wanted to speak to me apart.

But I did not care to rouse Don Jose’s suspicions, and being as we

were, I thought far the wisest course for me was to appear absolutely

confident.

I therefore told Antonio that I knew nothing on earth about horses, and

that I was desperately sleepy. Don Jose followed him to the stable, and

soon returned alone. He told me there was nothing the matter with the

horse, but that my guide considered the animal such a treasure that he

was scrubbing it with his jacket to make it sweat, and expected to spend

the night in that pleasing occupation. Meanwhile I had stretched myself

out on the mule rugs, having carefully wrapped myself up in my own

cloak, so as to avoid touching them. Don Jose, having begged me to

excuse the liberty he took in placing himself so near me, lay down

across the door, but not until he had primed his blunderbuss afresh and

carefully laid it under the wallet, which served him as a pillow.

I had thought I was so tired that I should be able to sleep even in such

a lodging. But within an hour a most unpleasant itching sensation roused

me from my first nap. As soon as I realized its nature, I rose to my

feet, feeling convinced I should do far better to spend the rest of

the night in the open air than beneath that inhospitable roof. Walking

tiptoe I reached the door, stepped over Don Jose, who was sleeping the

sleep of the just, and managed so well that I got outside the building

without waking him. Just beside the door there was a wide wooden

bench. I lay down upon it, and settled myself, as best I could, for the

remainder of the night. I was just closing my eyes for a second time

when I fancied I saw the shadow of a man and then the shadow of a horse

moving absolutely noiselessly, one behind the other. I sat upright, and

then I thought I recognised Antonio. Surprised to see him outside the

stable at such an hour, I got up and went toward him. He had seen me

first, and had stopped to wait for me.

“Where is he?” Antonio inquired in a low tone.

“In the _venta_. He’s asleep. The bugs don’t trouble him. But what are

you going to do with that horse?” I then noticed that, to stifle all

noise as he moved out of the shed, Antonio had carefully muffled the

horse’s feet in the rags of an old blanket.

“Speak lower, for God’s sake,” said Antonio. “You don’t know who that

man is. He’s Jose Navarro, the most noted bandit in Andalusia. I’ve been

making signs to you all day long, and you wouldn’t understand.”

“What do I care whether he’s a brigand or not,” I replied. “He hasn’t

robbed us, and I’ll wager he doesn’t want to.”

“That may be. But there are two hundred ducats on his head. Some lancers

are stationed in a place I know, a league and a half from here, and

before daybreak I’ll bring a few brawny fellows back with me. I’d have

taken his horse away, but the brute’s so savage that nobody but Navarro

can go near it.”

“Devil take you!” I cried. “What harm has the poor fellow done you that

you should want to inform against him? And besides, are you certain he

is the brigand you take him for?”

“Perfectly certain! He came after me into the stable just now, and said,

‘You seem to know me. If you tell that good gentleman who I am, I’ll

blow your brains out!’ You stay here, sir, keep close to him. You’ve

nothing to fear. As long as he knows you are there, he won’t suspect

anything.”

As we talked, we had moved so far from the _venta_ that the noise of the

horse’s hoofs could not be heard there. In a twinkling Antonio snatched

off the rags he had wrapped around the creature’s feet, and was just

about to climb on its back. In vain did I attempt with prayers and

threats to restrain him.

“I’m only a poor man, senor,” quoth he, “I can’t afford to lose two

hundred ducats--especially when I shall earn them by ridding the country

of such vermin. But mind what you’re about! If Navarro wakes up, he’ll

snatch at his blunderbuss, and then look out for yourself! I’ve gone too

far now to turn back. Do the best you can for yourself!”

The villain was in his saddle already, he spurred his horse smartly, and

I soon lost sight of them both in the darkness.

I was very angry with my guide, and terribly alarmed as well. After a

moment’s reflection, I made up my mind, and went back to the _venta_.

Don Jose was still sound asleep, making up, no doubt, for the fatigue

and sleeplessness of several days of adventure. I had to shake him

roughly before I could wake him up. Never shall I forget his fierce

look, and the spring he made to get hold of his blunderbuss, which, as a

precautionary measure, I had removed to some distance from his couch.

“Senor,” I said, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you. But I have a

silly question to ask you. Would you be glad to see half a dozen lancers

walk in here?”

He bounded to his feet, and in an awful voice he demanded:

“Who told you?”

“It’s little matter whence the warning comes, so long as it be good.”

“Your guide has betrayed me--but he shall pay for it! Where is he?”

“I don’t know. In the stable, I fancy. But somebody told me--”

“Who told you? It can’t be the old hag--”

“Some one I don’t know. Without more parleying, tell me, yes or no, have

you any reason for not waiting till the soldiers come? If you have

any, lose no time! If not, good-night to you, and forgive me for having

disturbed your slumbers!”

“Ah, your guide! Your guide! I had my doubts of him at first--but--I’ll

settle with him! Farewell, senor. May God reward you for the service

I owe you! I am not quite so wicked as you think me. Yes, I still have

something in me that an honest man may pity. Farewell, senor! I have

only one regret--that I can not pay my debt to you!”

“As a reward for the service I have done you, Don Jose, promise me

you’ll suspect nobody--nor seek for vengeance. Here are some cigars for

your journey. Good luck to you.” And I held out my hand to him.

He squeezed it, without a word, took up his wallet and blunderbuss, and

after saying a few words to the old woman in a lingo that I could not

understand, he ran out to the shed. A few minutes later, I heard him

galloping out into the country.

As for me, I lay down again on my bench, but I did not go to sleep

again. I queried in my own mind whether I had done right to save a

robber, and possibly a murderer, from the gallows, simply and solely

because I had eaten ham and rice in his company. Had I not betrayed my

guide, who was supporting the cause of law and order? Had I not

exposed him to a ruffian’s vengeance? But then, what about the laws of

hospitality?

“A mere savage prejudice,” said I to myself. “I shall have to answer for

all the crimes this brigand may commit in future.” Yet is that instinct

of the conscience which resists every argument really a prejudice? It

may be I could not have escaped from the delicate position in which I

found myself without remorse of some kind. I was still tossed to and

fro, in the greatest uncertainty as to the morality of my behaviour,

when I saw half a dozen horsemen ride up, with Antonio prudently lagging

behind them. I went to meet them, and told them the brigand had fled

over two hours previously. The old woman, when she was questioned by the

sergeant, admitted that she knew Navarro, but said that living alone,

as she did, she would never have dared to risk her life by informing

against him. She added that when he came to her house, he habitually

went away in the middle of the night. I, for my part, was made to ride

to a place some leagues away, where I showed my passport, and signed a

declaration before the _Alcalde_. This done, I was allowed to recommence

my archaeological investigations. Antonio was sulky with me; suspecting

it was I who had prevented his earning those two hundred ducats.

Nevertheless, we parted good friends at Cordova, where I gave him as

large a gratuity as the state of my finances would permit.