We were roused from this quiet state of enjoyment by the voice of
our trusty squire hailing us from a distance. He came up to us, out of
breath. "Ah, senores," cried he, "el pobre Sancho no es nada sin Don
Quixote." ("Ah, senores, poor Sancho is nothing without Don Quixote.")
He had been alarmed at our not coming to the inn; Loxa was such a wild
mountain place, full of contrabandistas, enchanters, and infiernos; he
did not well know what might have happened, and set out to seek us,
inquiring after us of every person he met, until he traced us across
the bridge, and, to his great joy, caught sight of us strolling in the
alameda.
The inn to which he conducted us was called the Corona, or Crown,
and we found it quite in keeping with the character of the place,
the inhabitants of which seem still to retain the bold, fiery spirit
of the olden time. The hostess was a young and handsome Andalusian
widow, whose trim basquina of black silk, fringed with bugles, set off
the play of a graceful form and round pliant limbs. Her step was
firm and elastic; her dark eye was full of fire, and the coquetry of
her air, and varied ornaments of her person, showed that she was
accustomed to be admired.
She was well matched by a brother, nearly about her own age; they
were perfect models of the Andalusian majo and maja. He was tall,
vigorous, and well-formed, with a clear olive complexion, a dark
beaming eye, and curling chestnut whiskers that met under his chin.
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