on strong horses, armed with rusty matchlocks or sabres, would
bring up the rear, threatening the distant foe, and now and then
saluting them with a hoarse blast from the Gypsy horn:-


'O, when I sit my courser bold,
My bantling in my rear,
And in my hand my musket hold -
O how they quake with fear!'


Let us for a moment suppose some unfortunate traveller, mounted on
a handsome mule or beast of some value, meeting, unarmed and alone,
such a rabble rout at the close of eve, in the wildest part, for
example, of La Mancha; we will suppose that he is journeying from
Seville to Madrid, and that he has left at a considerable distance
behind him the gloomy and horrible passes of the Sierra Morena; his
bosom, which for some time past has been contracted with dreadful
forebodings, is beginning to expand; his blood, which has been
congealed in his veins, is beginning to circulate warmly and
freely; he is fondly anticipating the still distant posada and
savoury omelet. The sun is sinking rapidly behind the savage and
uncouth hills in his rear; he has reached the bottom of a small
valley, where runs a rivulet at which he allows his tired animal to
drink; he is about to ascend the side of the hill; his eyes are
turned upwards; suddenly he beholds strange and uncouth forms at
the top of the ascent - the sun descending slants its rays upon red
cloaks, with here and there a turbaned head, or long streaming
hair. The traveller hesitates, but reflecting that he is no longer
in the mountains, and that in the open road there is no danger of