I took occasion one day to inform myself of this ancient book, which
appeared to be his vade mecum, and found it to be an odd volume of the
works of Padre Benito Geronymo Feyjoo, and that one which treats about
the Magic of Spain, the mysterious caves of Salamanca and Toledo,
the Purgatory of San Patricio (St. Patrick), and other mystic subjects
of the kind. From that time I kept my eye upon the veteran.
On the present occasion, I amused myself with watching him fit out
the steed of Manuel with all the forecast of an old campaigner. First,
he took a considerable time in adjusting to the back of the mule a
cumbrous saddle of antique fashion, high in front and behind, with
Moorish stirrups like shovels, the whole looking like a relic of the
old armory of the Alhambra; then a fleecy sheepskin was accommodated
to the deep seat of the saddle; then a maleta, neatly packed by the
hand of Dolores, was buckled behind; then a manta was thrown over it
to serve either as cloak or couch; then the all-important alforjas,
carefully stocked with provant, were hung in front, together with
the bota, or leathern bottle for either wine or water, and lastly
the trabuco, which the old soldier slung behind, giving it his
benediction. It was like the fitting out in old times of a Moorish
cavalier for a foray or a joust in the Vivarrambla. A number of the
lazzaroni of the fortress had gathered round, with some of the
invalids, all looking on, all offering their aid, and all giving
advice, to the great annoyance of Tio Polo.
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