course 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 José 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 José 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,[1] and the words must be in the Basque language."
"Yes," said Don Jose, with a gloomy look.
- ↑ The privileged Provinces, Alava, Biscay, Guipuzcoa, and a part of Navarre, which all enjoy special fueros. The Basque language is spoken in these countries.
