"Who goes there?" said the sentinel at the gate.
"Soldier of the Alhambra!" said the corporal, without turning his
head.
"What have you in charge?"
"Provisions for the garrison."
"Proceed."
The corporal marched straight forward, followed by the convoy, but
had not advanced many paces before a posse of custom-house officers
rushed out of a small toll-house.
"Hallo there!" cried the leader. "Muleteer, halt, and open those
packages."
The corporal wheeled round, and drew himself up in battle array.
"Respect the flag of the Alhambra," said he; "these things are for the
governor."
"A figo for the governor, and a figo for his flag. Muleteer, halt, I
say."
"Stop the convoy at your peril!" cried the corporal, cocking his
musket.
The muleteer gave his beast a hearty thwack; the custom-house
officer sprang forward and seized the halter; whereupon the corporal
levelled his piece, and shot him dead.
The street was immediately in an uproar.
The old corporal was seized, and after undergoing sundry kicks,
and cuffs, and cudgellings, which are generally given impromptu by the
mob in Spain, as a foretaste of the after penalties of the law, he was
loaded with irons, and conducted to the city prison; while his
comrades were permitted to proceed with the convoy, after it had
been well rummaged, to the Alhambra.
The old governor was in a towering passion when he heard of this
insult to his flag and capture of his corporal.
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