As we were at supper, two poor Asturians put in in
distress, begging food and a night's lodging. They had been waylaid by
robbers as they came from a fair among the mountains, robbed of a
horse, which carried all their stock in trade, stripped of their
money, and most of their apparel, beaten for having offered
resistance, and left almost naked in the road. My companion, with a
prompt generosity natural to him, ordered them a supper and a bed, and
gave them a sum of money to help them forward towards their home.
As the evening advanced, the dramatis personae thickened. A large
man, about sixty years of age, of powerful frame, came strolling in,
to gossip with mine hostess. He was dressed in the ordinary Andalusian
costume, but had a huge sabre tucked under his arm, wore large
moustaches, and had something of a lofty swaggering air. Every one
seemed to regard him with great deference.
Our man Sancho whispered to us that he was Don Ventura Rodriguez,
the hero and champion of Loxa, famous for his prowess and the strength
of his arm. In the time of the French invasion he surprised six
troopers who were asleep: he first secured their horses, then attacked
them with his sabre, killed some, and took the rest prisoners. For
this exploit the king allows him a peseta (the fifth of a duro, or
dollar) per day, and has dignified him with the title of Don.
I was amused to behold his swelling language and demeanor.
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