I expressed to him the admiration which I really felt, and by so
doing entirely won the good notary's heart: "I suppose there is
nothing like that at Vigo?" said I. He looked at me for a moment,
winked, gave a short triumphant chuckle, and then proceeded on his
way, walking at a tremendous rate. The Senor Garcia was dressed in
all respects as an English notary might be: he wore a white hat,
brown frock coat, drab breeches buttoned at the knees, white
stockings, and well blacked shoes. But I never saw an English
notary walk so fast: it could scarcely be called walking: it
seemed more like a succession of galvanic leaps and bounds. I
found it impossible to keep up with him: "Where are you conducting
me?" I at last demanded, quite breathless.
"To the house of the cleverest man in Spain," he replied, "to whom
I intend to introduce you; for you must not think that Pontevedra
has nothing to boast of but its splendid edifices and its beautiful
country; it produces more illustrious minds than any other town in
Spain. Did you ever hear of the grand Tamerlane?"
"Oh, yes," said I, "but he did not come from Pontevedra or its
neighbourhood: he came from the steppes of Tartary, near the river
Oxus."
"I know he did," replied the notary, "but what I mean to say is,
that when Enrique the Third wanted an ambassador to send to that
African, the only man he could find suited to the enterprise was a
knight of Pontevedra, Don - by name.
