Donkey--Malaga--Summer Scenery--The Story of Don Pedro, without Fear and
without Care--The Field of Monda--A Lonely Venta.

Venta de Villalon, _November_ 20, 1852.

The clouds broke away before I had been two hours in the Alhambra, and the
sunshine fell broad and warm into its courts. They must be roofed with
blue sky, in order to give the full impression of their brightness and
beauty. Mateo procured me a bottle of _vino rancio_, and we drank it
together in the Court of Lions. Six hours had passed away before I knew
it, and I reluctantly prepared to leave. The clouds by this time had
disappeared; the Vega slept in brilliant sunshine, and the peaks of the
Sierra Nevada shone white and cold against the sky.

On reaching the hotel, I found a little man, nicknamed Napoleon, awaiting
me. He was desirous to furnish me with horses, and, having a prophetic
knowledge of the weather, promised me a bright sky as far as Gibraltar. "I
furnish all the senors," said he; "they know me, and never complain of me
or my horses;" but, by way of security, on making the bargain, I
threatened to put up a card in the hotel at Gibraltar, warning all
travellers against him, in case I was not satisfied. My contract was for
two horses and a guide, who were to be ready at sunrise the next morning.
Napoleon was as good as his word; and before I had finished an early cup
of chocolate, there was a little black Andalusian stallion awaiting me.
The _alforjas_, or saddle-bags, of the guide were strengthened by a stock
of cold provisions, the leathern bota hanging beside it was filled with
ripe Granada wine; and now behold me ambling over the Vega, accoutred in a
gay Andalusian jacket, a sash woven by Mateo Ximenes, and one of those
bandboxy sombreros, which I at first thought so ungainly, but now consider
quite picturesque and elegant.

My guide, a short but sinewy and well-knit son of the mountains, named
Jose Garcia, set off at a canter down the banks of the Darro. "Don't ride
so fast!" cried Napoleon, who watched our setting out, from the door of
the fonda; but Jose was already out of hearing. This guide is a companion
to my liking. Although he is only twenty-seven, he has been for a number
of years a _correo_, or mail-rider, and a guide for travelling parties.
His olive complexion is made still darker by exposure to the sun and wind,
and his coal-black eyes shine with Southern heat and fire. He has one of
those rare mouths which are born with a