This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They looked at each other, then at my passport. At length the alcalde, striking it with his finger, bellowed forth:
“This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.”
Myself.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner. I of course carry a foreign passport.
Alcalde.—Then you mean to assert that you are not Calros Rey.
Myself.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name.
Alcalde.—Hark to the fellow! he has the audacity to say that he has never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king.
Myself.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can reply is, that you can scarcely be serious. You might as well assert that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is his nephew, the Infante Don Sebastian. [29]
Alcalde.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we suppose him to be.
Myself.—It is true that they are both hunchbacks. But how can I be like Don Carlos? I have nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am nearly a foot taller than the pretender.
Alcalde.—That makes no difference; you of course carry many waistcoats about you, by means of which you disguise yourself, and appear tall or low according to your pleasure.