‘You see that cape?’ said Stephen, who was gazing at it with an open book dangling from his hand, his thumb marking the place. ‘It is Cabo Roig, the seaward limit of Catalan speech: Orihuela is a little way inland, and after Orihuela you hear no more Catalan – ’tis Murcia, and the barbarous jargon of the Andalou. Even in the village round the point they speak like Morescoes – algarabia, gabble-gabble, munch, munch.’ Though perfectly liberal in all other senses, Stephen Maturin could not abide a Moor.
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