As the injured man still supported upon the barrel by two comrades, was
explaining in Spanish all that had befallen him, I was held by several
of the villains in front of the table at which the chief was seated, and
had an excellent opportunity of observing him. I have seldom seen any
man who was less like my idea of a brigand, and especially of a brigand
with such a reputation that in a land of cruelty he had earned so dark a
nickname. His face was bluff and broad and bland, with ruddy cheeks and
comfortable little tufts of side-whiskers, which gave him the appearance
of a well-to-do grocer of the Rue St Antoine. He had not any of those
flaring sashes or gleaming weapons which distinguished his followers,
but on the contrary he wore a good broadcloth coat like a respectable
father of a family, and save for his brown leggings there was nothing to
indicate a life among the mountains. His surroundings, too, corresponded
with himself, and beside his snuff-box upon the table there stood a
great brown book, which looked like a commercial ledger. Many other
books were ranged along a plank between two powder-casks, and there was
a great litter of papers, some of which had verses scribbled upon them.
All this I took in while he, leaning indolently back in his chair, was
listening to the report of his lieutenant. Having heard everything, he
ordered the cripple to be carried out again, and I was left with my
three guards, waiting to hear my fate. He took up his pen, and tapping
his forehead with the handle of it, he pursed up his lips and looked out
of the corner of his eyes at the roof of the grotto.

'I suppose,' said he at last, speaking very excellent French, 'that you
are not able to suggest a rhyme for the word Covilha.'

I answered him that my acquaintance with the Spanish language was so
limited that I was unable to oblige him.