“I am about to deliver you to an officer of the viceroy, who is waiting.”

I dressed hastily, and after placing all my belongings in a portmanteau I followed him.  We went to the guardroom, and there I was placed under the charge of the officer who had arrested me, who took me to the palace.  There a Government official shewed me my trunk, telling me that I should find all my papers intact; and he then returned me my three passports, with the remark that they were genuine documents.

“I knew that all along.”

“I suppose so, but we had reasons for doubting their authenticity.”

“They must have been strange reasons, for, as you now confess, these reasons were devoid of reason.”

“You must be aware that I cannot reply to such an objection.”

“I don’t ask you to do so.”

“Your character is perfectly clear; all the same I must request you to leave Barcelona in three days, and Catalonia in a week.”

“Of course I will obey; but it strikes me that the Catalonian method of repairing injustice is somewhat peculiar.”

“If you think you have ground for complaint you are at liberty to go to Madrid and complain to the Court.”

“I have certainly grounds enough for complaint, sir, but I shall go to France, and not to Madrid; I have had enough of Spanish justice.  Will you please give me the order to leave in writing?”

“That’s unnecessary; you may take it for granted.  My name is Emmanuel Badillo; I am a secretary of state.  That gentleman will escort you back to the room where you were arrested.  You will find everything just as you have left it.  You are a free man.  To-morrow I will send you your passport, signed by the viceroy and myself.  Good day, sir.”

Accompanied by the officer and a servant bearing my portmanteau, I proceeded to my old inn.

On my way I saw a theatrical poster, and decided to go to the opera.  The good landlord was delighted to see me again, and hastened to light me a fire, for a bitterly cold north wind was blowing.  He assured me that no one but himself had been in my room, and in the officer’s presence he gave me back my sword, my great coat, and, to my astonishment, the hat I had dropped in my flight from the assassins.

The officer asked me if I had any complaints to make, and I replied that I had none.

“I should like to hear you say that I had done nothing but my duty, and that personally I have not done you any injury.”

I shook his hand, and assured him of my esteem.

“Farewell, sir,” said he, “I hope you will have a pleasant journey.”  I told my landlord that I would dine at noon, and that I trusted to him to celebrate my liberation in a fitting manner, and then I went to the post office to see if there were any letters for me.  I found five or six letters, with the seals intact, much to my astonishment.  What is one to make of a Government which deprives a man of his liberty on some trifling pretext, and, though seizing all his papers, respects the privacy of his letters?  But Spain, as I have remarked, is peculiar in every way.  These letters were from Paris, Venice, Warsaw, and Madrid, and I have never had any reason to believe that any other letters had come for me during my imprisonment.