He
was gallantly dressed in a short green velvet jacket, fitted to his
shape, profusely decorated with silver buttons, with a white
handkerchief in each pocket. He had breeches of the same, with rows of
buttons from the hips to the knees; a pink silk handkerchief round his
neck, gathered through a ring, on the bosom of a neatly-plaited shirt;
a sash round the waist to match; bottinas, or spatterdashes, of the
finest russet leather, elegantly worked, and open at the calf to
show his stockings and russet shoes, setting off a well-shaped foot.
As he was standing at the door, a horseman rode up and entered
into low and earnest conversation with him. He was dressed in a
similar style, and almost with equal finery- a man about thirty,
square-built, with strong Roman features, handsome, though slightly
pitted with the small-pox; with a free, bold, and somewhat daring air.
His powerful black horse was decorated with tassels and fanciful
trappings, and a couple of broad-mouthed blunderbusses hung behind the
saddle. He had the air of one of those contrabandistas I have seen
in the mountains of Ronda, and evidently had a good understanding with
the brother of mine hostess; nay, if I mistake not, he was a favored
admirer of the widow. In fact, the whole inn and its inmates had
something of a contrabandista aspect, and a blunderbuss stood in a
corner beside the guitar. The horseman I have mentioned passed his
evening in the posada, and sang several bold mountain romances with
great spirit.
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