"It is the convoy already--the convoy from Marbella to Medina--your graces will excuse me."
He hurried away, and in a minute after came breathlessly back with intelligence that it had been fired on by Don Fabrique with at least fifty thousand banditti, at Benelauria, near the foot of the Sierra, and but for a case of reliques carried by a padre of Medina, every soul must have perished; but would not the noble señores come down stairs, and count the bullet-holes in the pannels?
"By Jove, this affair becomes interesting," said Slingsby, and we descended to the inn-yard, where we found ourselves amid a Babel of tongues and dire confusion. Let the reader imagine four calessos, all painted in bright stripes of red and yellow, the royal colours of Spain, each with pannels full of glaring flowers and absurd miraculous pictures, a body like a cabriolet, supported on a ponderous under-carriage with high wheels, all splashed with mud. Each calesso was drawn by two mules, the collars and bridles of which were covered with clear jangling bells. These were each driven by a Jehu who wore all the brilliant colours of the rainbow in his jacket, sash, breeches, and embroidered leggings. These four calessos were full of passengers. There were soap-boilers and potters of Seville, sleek, well fed, and in easy circumstances; the old padre, José Torquemada, the curate of Medina, in a broad hat and long black cassock buttoned to the throat; over his shoulders he wore a broad cape, and in his hands were his beads, breviary, and the case of reliques which had just been of such signal service. There were several cotton manufacturers on their way to Cadiz; but all--save a military man who wore a green surtout and forage cap laced with gold--most unwarlike personages to meet a party of robbers in a Spanish sierra.
The drivers, we were told, were singing merrily, the bells were jangling, the passengers all smoking, chatting, and laughing, as they entered a defile in the hills, when suddenly the rocks and trees which overhung the rough path were found to be manned--
"Don Fabrique de Urquija!" was the cry, shots were fired--maladito! and the escort, which consisted of a sergeant and four dragoons of the Spanish army, turned their horses and fled at full speed, leaving the convoy to the mercy of the outlaws, who captured the rear calesso, cut its springs, shot the driver, and had retained it with all its contents and passengers. The other four had escaped, and came thundering down the narrow path to Castellar with all their passengers shouting with terror, the mules galloping, the bells jangling, and every vehicle plunging like a ship in a storm.