Upon which, the Don, stopping his mule at the risk of being cast down
the abyss, turns in his saddle, and says:

"Fellow, Don Lopez is a Spaniard. A Castilian of noble birth--" but here
his mule deciding that this was no fit place for halting, bundled onward
at a trot to overtake the guides, and obliged his rider to turn his
attention to other matters.

By the look of the sun it must have been about two in the afternoon
when, rounding a great bluff of rock, we came upon a kind of tableland
which commanded a wide view of the plain below, most dazzling to our
eyes after the gloomy recesses of the pass; and here we found trees
growing and some rude attempt at cultivation, but all very poor and
stunted, being still very high and exposed to the bleak winds issuing
from the gorges.

Our guides, throwing themselves on the ground, repaired once more to
their store of onions, and we, nothing loath to follow their examples,
opened our saddle bags, and with our cold meat and the hogskin of wine
made another good repast and very merry. And the Don, falling into
discourse with the guides, pointed out to us a little white patch on the
plain below, and told us that was Ravellos, where we should find one of
the best posadas in the world, which added to our satisfaction. "But"
says he, "'tis yet four hours' march ere we reach it, so we had best be
packing quickly."

Thereupon we finished our meal in haste, the guides still lying on the
ground eating onions, and when we were prepared to start they still lay
there and would not budge. On this ensued another discussion, very
indignant and passionate on the part of Don Sanchez, and as cool and