Roger Picó spurs to his horse and came to the door of the house, leaving his companions to a crossbow. Not seeing a living soul, pushed the door ajar, entered the hall and shouted the innkeeper. Not for these, and as it was not anything to stay planted there, the young squire slipped nicely into a great piece on the left and whose home was sputtered and burned with a flame joyful thick trunks. By the fire and sat in a high chair for support rod, he found himself a lady whose age would not exceed thirty-five, and whose eyes, eyebrows and jet-black hair contrasted with the extreme whiteness of the complexion. But more than her beauty in it called attention to its stately and dignified, serious and thoughtful expression of countenance. Sitting in front of her on a stool was a gentleman of robust appearance, whose broad shoulders covered and loose black coat he was wearing a black velvet cap too, with curly white feather. On the crude table nearby were a jug of wine and a tin cup, which filled and emptied the gentleman from time to time, to come from Roger was busy and eating nuts, which had a full plate on the table and whose shells thrown into the flames of the home. His face turned slightly to look at Roger and he looked with surprise features were deformed cross scars, green little eyes and nose dented and twisted as if he had received tremendous blow.