ce you can draw the ladder up
after you on retiring for the night."

But for the gravity of our situation and prospects I could have burst
out laughing when Don Sanchez gave us the translation of this promise,
for the idea of regarding these pens as chambers was not less ludicrous
than the air of pride with which Don Lopez bestowed the privilege of
using 'em upon us.

Don Lopez left us, promising to send a maid with the necessary
appointments for Moll's toilette.

"A plague of all this finery!" growled Dawson. "How long may it be,
think you, Senor, ere we can quit this palace and get to one of those
posadas you promised us?"

Don Sanchez hunched his shoulders for all reply and turned away to hide
his mortification. And now a girl comes up with a biggin of water on her
head, a broken comb in her hand, and a ragged cloth on her arm that
looked as if it had never been washed since it left the loom, and sets
them down on a bench, with a grin at Moll; but she, though not
over-nice, turns away with a pout of disgust, and then we to get a
breath of fresh air to a hole in the wall on the windward side, where we
stand all dumb with disappointment and dread until we are called down to
dinner. But before going down Don Sanchez warns us to stand on our best
behaviour, as these Spaniards, for all their rude seeming, were of a
particularly punctilious, ticklish disposition, and that we might come
badly out of this business if we happened to displease them.

"I cannot see reason in that, Senor," says Dawson; "for the less we
please 'em, the sooner they are likely to send us hence, and so the
better for us."

"As you please," replies the Don, "but my warning is to your advantage."

Down we go, and there stands Don Lopez with a dozen choice friends, all
the raggedest, dirty villains in the world; and they saluting us, we
return their civility with a very fair pretence and take the seats
offered us--they standing until we are set. Then they sit down, and each
man lugs out a knife from his waist-cloth. The cauldron, filled with a
mess of kid stewed in a multitude of onions, is fetched from the fire,
and, being set upon a smooth board, is slid down the table to our host,
who, after picking out some titbits for us, serves himself, and so
slides it back, each man in turn picking out a morsel on the end of his
knife. Bearing in mind Don Sanchez's warning, we do our best to eat of
this dish; but, Heaven knows! with little relish, and m