“Then I know not how you can hope to live like a hertzog in your native canton, unless you expect that the men of Lucerne, in consideration of your services to the Pope and to the king of Spain, will maintain you in splendour at the public expense.”

“Lieber Herr,” said Benedict, “the men of Lucerne are by no means fond of maintaining the soldiers of the Pope and the king of Spain at their own expense; many of the guard who have returned thither beg their bread in the streets, but when I go, it shall be in a coach drawn by six mules, with a treasure, a mighty schatz which lies in the church of Saint James of Compostella, in Galicia.”

“I hope you do not intend to rob the church,” said I; “if you do, however, I believe you will be disappointed.  Mendizabal and the liberals have been beforehand with you.  I am informed that at present no other treasure is to be found in the cathedrals of Spain than a few paltry ornaments and plated utensils.”

“My good German Herr,” said Benedict, “it is no church schatz, and no person living, save myself, knows of its existence:  nearly thirty years ago, amongst the sick soldiers who were brought to Madrid, was one of my comrades of the Walloon Guard, who had accompanied the French to Portugal; he was very sick and shortly died.  Before, however, he breathed his last, he sent for me, and upon his deathbed told me that himself and two other soldiers, both of whom had since been killed, had buried in a certain church at Compostella a great booty which they had made in Portugal:  it consisted of gold moidores and of a packet of huge diamonds from the Brazils; the whole was contained in a large copper kettle.  I listened with greedy ears, and from that moment, I may say, I have known no rest, neither by day nor night, thinking of the schatz.  It is very easy to find, for the dying man was so exact in his description of the place where it lies, that were I once at Compostella, I should have no difficulty in putting my hand upon it; several times I have been on the point of setting out on the journey, but something has always happened to stop me.  When my wife died, I left Minorca with a determination to go to Saint James, but on reaching Madrid, I fell into the hands of a Basque woman, who persuaded me to live with her, which I have done for several years; she is a great hax, {8} and says that if I desert her she will breathe a spell which shall cling to me for ever.  Dem Got sey dank,—­she is now in the hospital, and daily expected to die.  This is my history, Lieber Herr.”

I have been the more careful in relating the above conversation, as I shall have frequent occasion to mention the Swiss in the course of these journals; his subsequent adventures were highly extraordinary, and the closing one caused a great sensation in Spain.

CHAPTER XIV

State of Spain—­Isturitz—­Revolution of the Granja—­The
Disturbance—­Signs of Mischief—­Newspaper Reporters—­Quesada’s
Onslaught—­The Closing Scene—­Flight of the Moderados—­The Coffee
Bowl.