I told you, to start with, that Felipe was a crazy old fool:  and I dare say you have gathered by this time what shape his craziness took.  He had a mania for imagining himself a great man.  For days together he might be as sane as you or I; and then, all of a sudden—­a chance word would set him off—­he had mounted his horse and put on all the airs of the King of Spain, or his Holiness the Pope, or any grandissimo you pleased, from the Governor of Panama upwards.  I had known that morning, when he began to prate about our being kings, that the crust of his common-sense was wearing thin.  I suppose that after leaving me he must have come across the coffers in which the Abbot kept his robes of state, and that the sight of them started his folly with a twist; for he lay below me on the marble floor of the chapel, arrayed like a prince of the Church.  The mitre had rolled from his head; but the folds of a magnificent purple cope, embroidered with golden lilies and lined with white silk, flowed from his twisted shoulders over the black and white chequers of the pavement.  And he must have dressed himself with care, too:  for beneath the torn hem of the alb his feet and ankles stirred feebly, and caught my eye:  and they were clad in silken stockings.  He was screaming no longer.  Only a moan came at intervals as he lay there, with closed eyes, in the centre of that ring of devils:  and on the outer edge of the ring, guarded, stood Brother Bartolome and the Carmelite.  Had we forgotten or been too careless to close the door after us when Brother Bartolome let us in?  I tried to remember, but could not be sure.

The most of the buccaneers—­there were eight of them—­spoke no Spanish:  but there was one, a cross-eyed fellow, who acted as interpreter.  And he knelt and held up a bundle of keys which Felipe wore slung from a girdle round his waist.

“Once more, Master Abbot—­will you show us your treasures, or will you not?”

Felipe moaned.

“I tell you,” Brother Bartolome spoke up, very short and distinct, “there are no treasures.  And if there were, that poor wretch could not show them.  He is no Abbot, but a beggar who has lived on charity these twenty years to my knowledge.”

“That tongue of yours, friar, needs looking to.  I promise you to cut it out and examine it when I have done with your reverend father here.  As for the wench at your side—­”

“You may do as your cruelty prompts you, Brother Bartolome interrupted.  But that man is no Abbot.”

“He may be Saint Peter himself, and these the keys of Heaven and Hell.  But I and my camarados are going to find out what they open, as sure as my name is Evan Evans.”  And he knotted a cord round Felipe’s forehead and began to twist.  The Carmelite put her hands over her eyes and would have fallen:  but one of her guards held her up, while another slipped both arms round her neck from behind and held her eyelids wide open with finger