courteous; it is true, that in return I was compelled to listen to a vast deal of Carlism, in other words, high treason against the ruling powers in Spain, to which, however, I submitted with patience.  “Don Jorgito,” said the landlord to me one day, “I love the English; they are my best customers.  It is a pity that there is not greater union between Spain and England, and that more English do not visit us.  Why should there not be a marriage?  The king will speedily be at Madrid.  Why should there not be bodas between the son of Don Carlos and the heiress of England?”

“It would certainly tend to bring a considerable number of English to Spain,” said I, “and it would not be the first time that the son of a Carlos has married a Princess of England.”

The host mused for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Carracho, Don Jorgito, if this marriage could be brought about, both the king and myself should have cause to fling our caps in the air.”

The house or posada in which I had taken up my abode was exceedingly spacious, containing an infinity of apartments, both large and small, the greater part of which were, however, unfurnished.  The chamber in which I was lodged stood at the end of an immensely long corridor, of the kind so admirably described in the wondrous tale of Udolfo.  For a day or two after my arrival I believed myself to be the only lodger in the house.  One morning, however, I beheld a strange-looking old man seated in the corridor, by one of the windows, reading intently in a small thick volume.  He was clad in garments of coarse blue cloth, and wore a loose spencer over a waistcoat adorned with various rows of small buttons of mother of pearl; he had spectacles upon his nose.  I could perceive, notwithstanding he was seated, that his stature bordered upon the gigantic.  “Who is that person?” said I to the landlord, whom I presently met; “is he also a guest of yours?” “Not exactly, Don Jorge de mi alma,” replied he, “I can scarcely call him a guest, inasmuch as I gain nothing by him, though he is staying at my house.  You must know, Don Jorge, that he is one of two priests who officiate at a large village at some slight distance from this place.  So it came to pass, that when the soldiers of Gomez entered the village, his reverence went to meet them, dressed in full canonicals, with a book in his hand, and he, at their bidding, proclaimed Carlos Quinto in the market-place.  The other priest, however, was a desperate liberal, a downright negro, and upon him the royalists laid their hands, and were proceeding to hang him.  His reverence, however, interfered, and obtained mercy for his colleague, on condition that he should cry Viva Carlos Quinto! which the latter did in order to save his life.  Well; no sooner had the royalists departed from these parts than the black priest mounts his mule, comes to Cordova, and informs against his reverence, notwithstanding that he had saved his life.  So his reverence was