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.
"José-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 scrutinising my companion, I had ended by reconciling his appearance with the description of José-María 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 old mule rugs were spread on the floor. These were the travellers' beds. Twenty paces from the house.
