night came on, how could I hope to cross it on the morrow? In
two days, the India steamer would be at Gibraltar; my passage was already
taken, and I _must_ be there. The matter was discussed for some time; it
was pronounced impossible to travel by the usual road, but the landlord
knew a path among the hills which led to a ferry on the Guadiaro, where
there was a boat, and from thence we could make our way to San Roque,
which is in sight of Gibraltar. He demanded rather a large fee for
accompanying me, but there was nothing else to be done. Jose and I sat
down in great tribulation to our accustomed olla, but neither of us could
do justice to it, and the greater part gladdened the landlord's two
boys--beautiful little imps, with faces like Murillo's cherubs.

Nevertheless, I passed rather a merry evening, chatting with some of the
villagers over a brazier of coals; and one of the aforesaid boys, who,
although only eight years old, already performed the duties of mozo,
lighted me to my loft. When he had put down the lamp, he tried' the door,
and asked me: "Have you the key?" "No," said I, "I don't want one; I am
not afraid." "But," he rejoined, "perhaps you may get afraid in the night;
and if you do, strike on this part of the wall (suiting the action to the
word)--_I_ sleep on that side." I willingly promised to call him to my
aid, if I should get alarmed. I slept but little, for the wind was howling
around the tiles over my head, and I was busy with plans for constructing
rafts and swimming currents with a rope around my waist. Finally, I found
a little oblivion, but it seemed that I had scarcely closed my eyes, when
Jose pushed open the door. "Thanks be to God, senor!" said he, "it begins
to dawn, and the sky is clear: we shall certainly get to Gibraltar
to-day."

The landlord was ready, so we took some bread and a basket of olives, and
set out at once. Leaving Gaucin, we commenced descending the mountain
staircase by which the Serrania of Ronda is scaled, on the side towards
Gibraltar. "The road," says Mr. Ford, "seems made by the Evil One in a
hanging garden of Eden." After four miles of frightfully rugged descent,
we reached an orange grove on the banks of the Xenar, and then took a wild
path leading along the hills on the right of the stream. We overtook a few
muleteers, who were tempted out by the fine weather, and before long the
_correo_, or mail-rider from Ronda to San Roque, joined us. After eight
miles more of