is
can so ready, essayed to drink the wine after the fashion of the
muleteers. But the goat-skin bag, clumsily manipulated in the hands of
the old guardsman, instead of sending the stream into his mouth, jetted
it all over his face and into his eyes, blinding and half-choking him!
As he stood in his stultified attitude, wine-skin in hand, the precious
fluid running down his nose, and dripping from the tips of his grand
mustachios, he presented a picture that caused the muleteers to laugh
till the tears ran down their cheeks; shouting out their _bravos_ and
other exclamations, as if they were applauding some exquisite piece of
performance in a theatre.

Pouchskin took it all in good part, and the muleteers pressed him to try
again; but, not caring to expose himself to a fresh burst of ridicule,
the old grenadier borrowed the cup of one of his young masters; and by
the help of this managed matters a little more to his mind. As the wine
tasted good to the old soldier's palate, and as the hospitable muleteers
invited him to drink as much as he pleased, it was not until the
goat-skin bag exhibited symptoms of collapse, that he returned it to its
owners.

Perhaps had Pouchskin not indulged so freely in the seducing Malaga
tipple, he might have avoided a very perilous adventure which befell him
almost on the instant, and which we shall now relate.

Our travellers, after exchanging some further civilities with the
muleteers, had once more mounted, and were about proceeding on their
way. Pouchskin, riding his great French jennet, had started in the
advance. Just in front of him, however, the pack mules were standing in
a cluster--not only blocking up the path, but barring the way on both
sides--so that to get beyond them it would be necessary to pass through
their midst. The animals all seemed tranquil enough--some picking at
the bushes that were within their reach, but most of them standing
perfectly still, occasionally shaking their long ears, or changing one
leg to throw the weight upon another. Pouchskin saw that it was
necessary to pass among them; and, probably, had he squeezed quietly
through, they might have remained still, and taken no notice of him.
But, elated with the wine he had drunk, the ex-grenadier, instead of
following this moderate course, drove his spurs into his great French
hybrid, and with a loud charging yell--such as might have issued from
the throat of a Cossack--he dashed right into the midst