rode off, shaking his clenched fist at the staring
log-choppers, and hissing out in angry aspirate another Russian
shibboleth, which neither could nor should be translated.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A MEETING WITH MULETEERS.

A little beyond the scene of their encounter with the woodcutters, the
path entered among the gorges of the mountains, and the level plains of
France were for a time lost to their view. The route they were
following was a mere bridle-track, quite impracticable for carriages,
but leading to one of the "ports" already mentioned, by which they could
pass through to the Spanish side. Through this port a considerable
traffic is carried on between the two countries--most of the carrying
being done by Spanish muleteers, who cross the mountains conducting
large trains of mules--all, except those upon which they themselves
ride, laden with packs and bales of merchandise.

That such a traffic was carried over this route, our Russian travellers
needed no other evidence than what came under their own eyes; for
shortly after, on rounding a point of rock, they saw before them a large
drove of mules, gaily caparisoned with red cloth and stamped leather,
and each carrying its pack. The gang had halted on a platform of no
great breadth; and the drivers--about a dozen men in all--were seen
seated upon the rocks, a little way in advance of the animals. Each
wore a capacious cloak of brown cloth--a favourite colour among the
Pyrenean Spaniards; and what with their swarthy complexions, bearded
lips, and wild attire, it would have been pardonable enough to have
mistaken them for a band of brigands, or, at all events, a party of
_contrabandistas_.

They were neither one nor the other, however; but honest Spanish
muleteers, on their way to a French market, with commodities produced on
the southern side of the mountains.

As our travellers came up, they were in the act of discussing a
luncheon, which consisted simply of black bread, tough goat's-milk
cheese, and thin Malaga wine--the last carried in a skin bag, out of
which each individual drank in his turn, simply holding up the bag and
pouring the wine by a small jet down his throat.

They were good-humoured fellows, and invited our travellers to taste
their wine; which invitation it would have been ill-mannered to refuse.
Ivan and Alexis emptied some out into their silver cups--which they
carried slung conveniently to their belts; but Pouchskin not having h