“Since you are come, I am very glad to see you.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said I, reseating myself; “and since I am here, we may as well talk of an all-important matter, the circulation of the Scripture.  Does your lordship see any way by which an end so desirable might be brought about?”

“No,” said the Archbishop faintly.

“Does not your lordship think that a knowledge of the Scripture would work inestimable benefit in these realms?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it probable that the government may be induced to consent to the circulation?”

“How should I know?” and the Archbishop looked me in the face.

I looked in the face of the Archbishop; there was an expression of helplessness in it, which almost amounted to dotage.  “Dear me,” thought I, “whom have I come to on an errand like mine?  Poor man, you are not fitted to play the part of Martin Luther, and least of all in Spain.  I wonder why your friends selected you to be Archbishop of Toledo; they thought perhaps that you would do neither good nor harm, and made choice of you, as they sometimes do primates in my own country, for your incapacity.  You do not seem very happy in your present situation; no very easy stall this of yours.  You were more comfortable, I trow, when you were the poor Bishop of Mallorca; could enjoy your puchera then without fear that the salt would turn out sublimate.  No fear then of being smothered in your bed.  A siesta is a pleasant thing when one is not subject to be disturbed by ‘the sudden fear.’  I wonder whether they have poisoned you already,” I continued, half aloud, as I kept my eyes fixed on his countenance, which methought was becoming ghastly.

“Did you speak, Don Jorge?” demanded the Archbishop.

“That is a fine brilliant on your lordship’s hand,” said I.

“You are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge,” said the Archbishop, his features brightening up; “vaya! so am I; they are pretty things.  Do you understand them?”

“I do,” said I, “and I never saw a finer brilliant than your own, one excepted; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine, a Tartar Khan.  He did not bear it on his finger, however; it stood in the frontlet of his horse, where it shone like a star.  He called it Daoud Scharr, which, being interpreted, meaneth light of war.”

“Vaya!” said the Archbishop, “how very extraordinary; I am glad you are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge.  Speaking of horses, reminds me that I have frequently seen you on horseback.  Vaya! how you ride; it is dangerous to be in your way.”

“Is your lordship fond of equestrian exercise?”

“By no means, Don Jorge; I do not like horses; it is not the practice of the church to ride on horseback.  We prefer mules:  they are the quieter animals; I fear horses, they kick so violently.”

“The kick of a horse is death,” said I, “if it touches a vital part.  I am not, however, of your lordship’s opinion with respect to mules:  a good ginete may retain his seat on a horse however vicious, but a mule—­vaya! when a false mule tira por detras, I do not believe that the Father of the Church himself could keep the saddle a moment, however sharp his bit.”