It
was the short staggering kind of tread of people carrying a very
heavy substance, nearly too much for their strength, and I thought
I heard the hurried breathing of men over-fatigued.
There was a
short pause, during which I conceived they were resting in the
middle of the road; then the stamping recommenced, until it reached
the other side, when I again heard a similar rustling amidst
branches; it continued for some time and died gradually away.
I continued my road, musing on what had just occurred, and forming
conjectures as to the cause. The lightning resumed its flashing,
and I saw that I was approaching tall black mountains.
This nocturnal journey endured so long that I almost lost all hope
of reaching the town, and had closed my eyes in a doze, though I
still trudged on mechanically, leading the horse. Suddenly a voice
at a slight distance before me roared out, "Quien vive?" for I had
at last found my way to Villafranca. It proceeded from the sentry
in the suburb, one of those singular half soldiers half guerillas,
called Miguelets, who are in general employed by the Spanish
government to clear the roads of robbers. I gave the usual answer,
"Espana," and went up to the place where he stood. After a little
conversation, I sat down on a stone, awaiting the arrival of
Antonio, who was long in making his appearance. On his arrival, I
asked if any one had passed him on the road, but he replied that he
had seen nothing. The night, or rather the morning, was still very
dark, though a small corner of the moon was occasionally visible.
On our inquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet directed us down
a street to the left, which we followed. The street was steep, we
could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by houses and
wall. We knocked at the gates of two or three of these houses (in
the upper stories of which lights were burning), for the purpose of
being set right, but we were either disregarded or not heard. A
horrid squalling of cats, from the tops of the houses and dark
corners, saluted our ears, and I thought of the night arrival of
Don Quixote and his squire at Toboso, and their vain search amongst
the deserted streets for the palace of Dulcinea. At length we saw
light and heard voices in a cottage at the other side of a kind of
ditch. Leading the horses over, we called at the door, which was
opened by an aged man, who appeared by his dress to be a baker, as
indeed he proved, which accounted for his being up at so late an
hour. On begging him to show us the way into the town, he led us
up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying that he
would likewise conduct us to the posada.
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