is lips. He is a Catalan."

"An Arragonese," hastily interrupted Perrico, eager to vindicate himself
from belonging to a province which the rough manners and harsh dialect
of its inhabitants cause generally to be held in small estimation
throughout the rest of Spain. "An Arragonese, from the _siempre heroica_
Sarragossa."

"It's all one," said the sergeant, with a horse-laugh, "all of the
_corona de Aragon_, as the Catalans say when they are ashamed of their
country. But what induced you, Don Perrico, being from Sarragossa, where
they are all as revolutionary as Riego, to leave the service of the
Neapolitan woman and come over to Charles V.?"

"Many things," answered the deserter. "In the first place, I am of a
thirsty family. My father kept a wine-shop and my mother was a
cantiniera, and both drank as much as they sold. I inherited an
unfortunate addiction to the wine-skin, which upon several occasions has
brought me into trouble and the black-hole. The latter did not please
me, and I resolved to try whether I should not find better treatment in
the service of King Charles."

"Not if you have brought your thirst with you," answered the sergeant.
"Zumalacarregui does not joke in matters of discipline; so, if your
thirst troubles you here, I advise you to quench it at the pump. But
that will be the easier, as neither wine nor money are likely to be
over-abundant with us."

At this moment, and before Perrico could reply to the sergeant's
warning, the sentry in front of the house suspended his walk and uttered
a sharp "Quien vive?"

"Carlos Quinto," was the reply.

Another password was exchanged, and then a step was audible in the
passage, and the bandaged head and pale face of Paco appeared at the
door of the guard-room. The muleteer was received with a cry of welcome
from the soldiers.

"Hurra!" cried the sergeant, "here is your match, Perrico. No Catalan or
Arragonese, but jolly Navarro. A week's pay to a wet cartridge, he
empties this bottle _de alto_ without spilling a drop."

And he held out one of the small bottles before mentioned, which
contained something like an English pint. Paco took it, raised it as
high as he could in the air, and gradually depressing the neck, the wine
poured out in a slender and continuous stream, which the muleteer, his
head thrown back, caught in his mouth. The bottle was emptied without a
single drop being spilt, or a stain appearing on the face of the
drinker.

"Bravo, Pa