January 3rd, 1769.

The driver was a Piedmontese and a worthy man: The next day he came into
the room of the wayside inn where I was dining, and in the presence of my
man asked me whether I had any suspicion that I was being followed.

"Well, I may be," I said, "but what makes you ask that question?"

"As you were leaving Barcelona yesterday, I noticed three ill-looking
fellows watching us, armed to the teeth. Last night they slept in the
stable with my mules. They dined here to-day, and they went on three
quarters of an hour ago. They don't speak to anyone, and I don't like the
looks of them."

"What shall we do to avoid assassination, or the dread of it?"

"We must start late, and stop at an inn I know of, a league this side of
the ordinary stage where they will be awaiting us. If they turn back, and
sleep at the same inn as ourselves, we shall be certain."

I thought the idea a sensible one, and we started, I going on foot nearly
the whole way; and at five o'clock we halted at a wretched inn, but we
saw no signs of the sinister trio.

At eight o'clock I was at supper, when my man came in and told me that
the three fellows had come back, and were drinking with our driver in the
stable.

My hair stood on end. There could be no more doubt about the matter.