There was something peculiarly strange about the figure; but what struck
me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved along, taking no
heed of me, though of course aware of my proximity, but looking straight
forward along the road, save when it occasionally raised a huge face and
large eyes towards the moon, which was now shining forth in the eastern
quarter. . . .
'A cold night,' said I at last. 'Is this the way to Talavera?'
'It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.'
'I am going to Talavera,' said I, 'as I suppose you are yourself.'
'I am going thither, so are you, bueno.'
The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way
quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice belonged.
They were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was
something in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation also
was correct, and the language, though singular, faultless. But I was
most struck with the manner in which the last word, bueno, was spoken. I
had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by no means
remember. A pause now ensued, the figure stalking on as before with the
most perfect indifference, and seemingly with no disposition either to
seek or avoid conversation.
'Are you not afraid,' said I at last, 'to travel these roads in the dark?
It is said that there are robbers abroad.'
'Are you not rather afraid,' replied the figure, 'to travel these roads
in the dark?--you who are ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner,
an Englishman?'
'How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?' demanded I, much
surprised.
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