“Then the complaints of the Chapter are true.”

“He does not get drunk.  No, senor, give the devil his due, but a glass now, and another presently, and a third if a friend comes to see him, must obfuscate him.  It is a habit he brought with him from Andalusia, where he was bishop before coming here.  But nothing common, a fine and refreshing drink, only to keep up his strength, nothing more.  And the wine is first class, uncle; I know it from one of his household.  He gives as much as fifty duros the arroba![1] They keep him the best in all la Mancha, a vintage from the time of the French, a syrup that warms the stomach and tempers it as though it were an organ.  From what the Aunt Tomasa says, the doctors patch him up, and then he does his best to get ill again with this glorious wine.”

[Footnote 1:  Arroba—­Measure containing thirty-two pints.]

The Tato, in the midst of his cynical mockery, still showed a regard for the prelate.

“Do not believe, uncle, that he is a nonentity.  Apart from his bad temper he is really a strong man, even as you see him here, with his small white and shining head like a baby’s, that seems even smaller above his immense corporation; but it carries something in it!  He has spoken a great deal in Madrid, and all the newspapers took as much notice of him as though he were Guerra.  His wisdom finds a remedy for everything.  If they speak of the poverty and misery in the world, he sings the old song:  bread for the poor, charity from the rich, and much Christian doctrine for everyone; that men ought not to quarrel because I have more than you, and there ought to be patience and decency in the world, for that is what is wanting.  What nonsense, eh, uncle?  You laugh at it?  But His Eminence’s recipe rather pleases me, especially that about the bread; but the cursed Catechism is in fault as we have all learnt from our childhood.”

The Perrero grew quite excited speaking about his prince: 

“And as a man?  A masterful man; no hypocrisy about him, nor hiding his head.  Everyone knows he was a soldier in his younger days.  The Aunt Tomasa remembers seeing him in the cloister with his helmet with horse-hair crest, his sergeant’s epaulets, and his rattling broad sword.  He is not afraid of anything, is not easily scandalised, and does not make a fuss about things.  Last year a Portuguese lady arrived here, who nearly drove all the cadets out of their senses with her silk stockings and her big hats.  You know Juanito, and you are aware that he is the son of a nephew of His Eminence who died some years ago.  Well, the youngster paraded up and down the Zocodover in his uniform with the Portuguese lady on his arm to arouse the jealousy of his companions in the Academy.  One day the young woman presented herself at the palace, and the servants, seeing her so beautifully dressed, made no difficulty about letting her in, thinking she was some lady from Madrid.  His Eminence received her