(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale Read Online Free PDF Page B

of her poems about it. In many ways her nature was as far removed from mine as mine was from Pedro's. Did
she
find
me
as limited as I found Pedro? That was a chill, uncomfortable notion. I feared it must be so. Perhaps she had done rightly in deciding to shut herself up alone with God? Perhaps God was the only person who could truly appreciate her?
    Then I grinned, remembering some of her other qualities: She could lie like a gypsy if there was need (even, sometimes, without the necessity); she could be very bad-tempered and moody; she had a fierce pride, and was often impatient with those of less wit than herself. Indeed, I felt not a little sorry for God, in His dealings with Juana, shut up alone with her....
    We made excellent speed that morning. After five hours' hard riding we came to Astorga, where we sold Qur mules, since they, poor things, were spent for the time, and would need several days' rest before they were fit for more work. However, since they were fine animals, Pedro, who took care of the sale, obtained a decent price for them, and we managed to procure another pair, almost as good, big and strong, the larger one standing nearly sixteen hands.
    Astorga, a small walled city with an arcaded plaza, is set on moorland with great mountains not far away. The cathedral is in ruins, and the people are grim and unfriendly. Hereabouts live the tribe of Maragatos, descended—so I have heard—from the Moors and ancient Goths. They carry the mails all over Spain, and are very faithful to their task, but otherwise surly and brutish.
    We did not linger in Astorga, for there we had the great good fortune to fall in with the grand post from Madrid to La Coruna. We had been told that the road ahead was infested with robbers, so the chance to travel with some fifty companions, under armed escort, was not to be lost. A troop of soldiers accompanied the government courier, who carried, on his sturdy pony, two great leather sacks of official papers. We asked permission of the sergeant in charge to ride with the party, leave was given, and we all set forward together, Pedro and I congratulating ourselves, for, with luck, our presence in such a cavalcade would pass unnoticed, should anybody inquire about us after we had gone.
    I had been wondering why the fat man with the little girl was not with Sancho the Spy that morning. Were they to follow him later? Or were they, after all, nothing to do with his interest in us, merely chance companions? Could Sancho have spoken the truth about his sister in Zamora? But then, why was the fat man planning a journey over the mountains? Or was that just coincidence? From time to time I put some of the questions to Pedro, but he, as I had known he would, merely shrugged, threw up his eyes, and answered, "How can I tell?"
    Meanwhile we continued at a rattling pace, the soldiers who accompanied us singing a great many songs, mostly bawdy ones. Once, for a moment, one of the men struck up the Revolutionary Hymn of Colonel Riego:
Tragala, tragala, tragala

Cara de morron—
    but the sergeant immediately silenced him with a terrible look, and a great blow on the shoulder, struck with the flat of his sword.
    Now the road began to seesaw, climbing sometimes over mighty and formidable mountains, dropping again among wide valleys where walnut and chestnut groves flourished, where nightingales sang and cuckoos called. At the village of Bembibre, a beautiful spot set among groves of oak and willow, we exchanged our martial escort for another, but there was no time to halt—the whole maneuver was performed at speed and we had no chance to buy food or bait our mounts. The same thing happened at Ponferrada, a mining town with a great castle high above it. Here, some members of the party fell out, as their steeds were exhausted, but we decided to press on, as far as our good beasts would take us.
    Now we were ascending one of the loneliest roads that may be found anywhere in Spain, and skirting the shanks of