JOURNEY. 



367 



Ortegas, with whom I grew better acquainted, 

 and found an amiable, diffident, and well-in- 

 formed young man, narrated to me the follow- 

 ing anecdote of the cruelty, and just punish- 

 ment, of a Spanish officer. This inhuman 

 wretch, having fastened on an immense pair 

 of mule spurs, was incessantly darting the 

 rowels into the bare flesh of the poor tortured 

 sillero, who, in vain, remonstrated with his 

 persecutor, and assured him that he could not 

 quicken his pace. Complaint only produced 

 additional aggression, and the officer plied his 

 spurs the more, in proportion to the murmurs 

 of the sillero. At last the man, roused to the 

 highest pitch of infuriated excitement and re- 

 sentment, from the relentless attacks of the 

 officer, on reaching this spot, jerked him from 

 his chair into the immense depth of the torrent 

 below, where he was killed, and his body 

 could not be recovered. The sillero dashed off 

 at full speed, and, escaping into the mountain, 

 was never after heard of. 



We now crossed the river San Juan, and ar- 

 rived at a shed called El Tambo de Toche, where 

 we halted for the night. Here Ortegas and 

 I joined dinners, Malarino messing alone. I 



