He was clearly a Spanish woodseller and he had the weary, averted, and downcast look of a race that is despised and kept under.

His donkey was a bony creature, with raw places on its flank and shoulders where its hide had been worn by the friction of its burdens.

He drove it slowly; crying "Arrah!" to it in the tongue of its own country, and not beating it cruelly.

At the bottom of the arcade there was an open place where a foul ditch was crossed by a rickety bridge.

Coming to this the man hesitated a moment, as if doubtful whether to drive his donkey over it or to make the beast trudge through the water.