Antonio.—Mais qu’est ce que vous voudriez, mon maître? Am I not a Greek, full of honour and sensibility? Would you have the cooks of Sceira and Stambul submit to be insulted here in Spain by the sons of counts rushing into the temple with manchets of bread? Non, non, mon maître, you are too noble to require that, and what is more, too just. But we will talk of other things. Mon maître, I came not alone, there is one now waiting in the corridor anxious to speak to you.
Myself.—Who is it?
Antonio.—One whom you have met, mon maître, in various and strange places.
Myself.—But who is it?
Antonio.—One who will come to a strange end, for so it is written. The most extraordinary of all the Swiss, he of Saint James—Der Schatz Gräber. [165]
Myself.—Not Benedict Mol?
“Yaw, mein lieber Herr,” said Benedict, pushing open the door which stood ajar; “it is myself. I met Herr Anton in the street, and hearing that you were in this place, I came with him to visit you.”
Myself.—And in the name of all that is singular, how is it that I see you in Madrid again? I thought that by this time you were returned to your own country.
Benedict.—Fear not, lieber Herr, I shall return thither in good time; but not on foot, but with mules and coach. The Schatz is still yonder, waiting to be dug up, and now I have better hope than ever; plenty of friends, plenty of money. See you not how I am dressed, lieber Herr?
And verily his habiliments were of a much more respectable appearance than any which he had sported on former occasions. His coat and pantaloons, which were of light green, were nearly new. On his head he still wore an Andalusian hat, but the present one was neither old nor shabby, but fresh and glossy, and of immense altitude of cone; whilst in his hand, instead of the ragged staff which I had observed at Saint James and Oviedo, he now carried a huge bamboo rattan, surmounted by the grim head of either a bear or lion, curiously cut out of pewter.