His Majesty himself, I think, proved the shrewdest examiner of them all.
"You said that you met Don Juan, the Spaniard, in your travels, Doctor
Oates. Pray, what is he like in face and figure?"
"My Lard—Your Majesty," said Oates, "he is a tall black thin faylow, with swatthy features"—(for so he pronounced his words.)
"Eh?" asked the King.
Dr. Oates repeated his words; and the King turned, nodding and smiling, to His Royal Highness; for the Spanish bastard is far more Austrian than Spanish, and is fair and fat and of small stature.
"Excellent, Doctor Oates," said the King. "And now there is another small matter. You told these gentlemen yesterday that you saw—with your own eyes—the bribe of ten thousand pound paid down by the French King's confessor. Pray, where was this money paid?"
"In the Jesuits' house in Paris, your Majesty," said the man.
"And where is that?"
"That—Your Majesty—that house is—is near the King's own house." (But he spoke hesitatingly.)
Then the King broke out in indignation; and beat his hand on the table.