Myself: I am an Englishman. Here is my passport, and I came to see Finisterra.
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.
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.