At Saint James I met with a kind and cordial coadjutor in my biblical labours in the bookseller of the place, Rey Romero, a man of about sixty.  This excellent individual, who was both wealthy and respected, took up the matter with an enthusiasm which doubtless emanated from on high, losing no opportunity of recommending my book to those who entered his shop, which was in the Azabacheria, and was a very splendid and commodious establishment.  In many instances, when the peasants of the neighbourhood came with an intention of purchasing some of the foolish popular story-books of Spain, he persuaded them to carry home Testaments instead, assuring them that the sacred volume was a better, more instructive, and even far more entertaining book than those they came in quest of.  He speedily conceived a great fancy for me, and regularly came to visit me every evening at my posada, and accompanied me in my walks about the town and the environs.  He was a man of considerable information, and though of much simplicity, possessed a kind of good-natured humour which was frequently highly diverting.

I was walking late one night alone in the Alameda of Saint James, considering in what direction I should next bend my course, for I had been already ten days in this place; the moon was shining gloriously, and illumined every object around to a considerable distance.  The Alameda was quite deserted; everybody, with the exception of myself, having for some time retired.  I sat down on a bench and continued my reflections, which were suddenly interrupted by a heavy stumping sound.  Turning my eyes in the direction from which it proceeded, I perceived what at first appeared a shapeless bulk slowly advancing:  nearer and nearer it drew, and I could now distinguish the outline of a man dressed in coarse brown garments, a kind of Andalusian hat, and using as a staff the long peeled branch of a tree.  He had now arrived opposite the bench where I was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and demanded charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which had some resemblance to the Catalan.  The moon shone on grey locks and on a ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once recognized:  “Benedict Mol,” said I, “is it possible that I see you at Compostella?”

“Och, mein Gott, es ist der Herr!” replied Benedict.  “Och, what good fortune, that the Herr is the first person I meet at Compostella.”

Myself.—­I can scarcely believe my eyes.  Do you mean to say that you have just arrived at this place?

Benedict.—­Ow yes, I am this moment arrived.  I have walked all the long way from Madrid.

Myself.—­What motive could possibly bring you such a distance?

Benedict.—­Ow, I am come for the schatz—­the treasure.  I told you at Madrid that I was coming; and now I have met you here, I have no doubt that I shall find it, the schatz.

Myself.—­In what manner did you support yourself by the way?