upon me, and I saw that a general attack was meditated.  Suddenly I took a large caserolle from the fire in which various eggs were frying; this I held out at arm’s length peering at it along my arm as if I were curiously inspecting it; my right foot advanced and the other thrown back as far as possible.  All stood still, imagining, doubtless, that I was about to perform some grand operation, and so I was; for suddenly the sinister leg advancing, with one rapid coup de pied, I sent the caserolle and its contents flying over my head, so that they struck the wall far behind me.  This was to let them know that I had broken my staff and had shaken the dust off my feet; so casting upon the count the peculiar glance of the Sceirote cooks when they feel themselves insulted, and extending my mouth on either side nearly as far as the ears, I took down my haversac and departed, singing as I went the song of the ancient Demos, who, when dying, asked for his supper, and water wherewith to lave his hands: 

[Greek verse]

And in this manner, mon maitre, I left the house of the Count of—­ .”

Myself.—­And a fine account you have given of yourself; by your own confession, your behaviour was most atrocious.  Were it not for the many marks of courage and fidelity which you have exhibited in my service, I would from this moment hold no farther communication with you.

Antonio.—­Mais qu’ est ce que vous voudriez, mon maitre?  Am I not a Greek, full of honour and sensibility?  Would you have the cooks of Sceira and Stambul submit to be insulted here in Spain by the sons of counts rushing into the temple with manchets of bread.  Non, non, mon maitre, you are too noble to require that, and what is more, too just. But we will talk of other things.  Mon maitre, I came not alone; there is one now waiting in the corridor anxious to speak to you.

Myself.—­Who is it?

Antonio.—­One whom you have met, mon maitre, in various and strange places.

Myself.—­But who is it?

Antonio.—­One who will come to a strange end, for so it is written.  The most extraordinary of all the Swiss, he of Saint James,—­Der schatz graber.

Myself.—­Not Benedict Mol?

“Yaw, mein lieber herr,” said Benedict, pushing open the door which stood ajar; “it is myself.  I met Herr Anton in the street, and hearing that you were in this place, I came with him to visit you.”

Myself.—­And in the name of all that is singular, how is it that I see you in Madrid again?  I thought that by this time you were returned to your own country.

Benedict.—­Fear not, lieber herr, I shall return thither in good time; but not on foot, but with mules and coach.  The schatz is still yonder, waiting to be dug up, and now I have better hope than ever:  plenty of friends, plenty of money.  See you not how I am dressed, lieber herr?