“Very rationally said; pity, though, that you did not think of that contingency till now.  I tell you, my friend, that you have engaged in a most desperate undertaking.  It is true that you may find a treasure.  The chances are, however, a hundred to one that you do not, and in that event, what will be your situation?  You will be looked upon as an impostor, and the consequences may be horrible to you.  Remember where you are, and amongst whom you are.  The Spaniards are a credulous people, but let them once suspect that they have been imposed upon, and above all laughed at, and their thirst for vengeance knows no limit.  Think not that your innocence will avail you.  That you are no impostor I feel convinced; but they would never believe it.  It is not too late.  Return your fine clothes and magic rattan to those from whom you had them.  Put on your old garments, grasp your ragged staff, and come with me to the Sagra, to assist in circulating the illustrious Gospel amongst the rustics on the Tagus’ bank.”

Benedict mused for a moment, then shaking his head, he cried, “No, no, I must accomplish my destiny.  The schatz is not yet dug up.  So said the voice in the barranco.  To-morrow to Compostella.  I shall find it—­the schatz—­it is still there—­it must be there.”

He went, and I never saw him more.  What I heard, however, was extraordinary enough.  It appeared that the government had listened to his tale, and had been so struck with Bennet’s exaggerated description of the buried treasure, that they imagined that, by a little trouble and outlay, gold and diamonds might be dug up at Saint James sufficient to enrich themselves and to pay off the national debt of Spain.  The Swiss returned to Compostella “like a duke,” to use his own words.  The affair, which had at first been kept a profound secret, was speedily divulged.  It was, indeed, resolved that the investigation, which involved consequences of so much importance, should take place in a manner the most public and imposing.  A solemn festival was drawing nigh, and it was deemed expedient that the search should take place on that day.  The day arrived.  All the bells in Compostella pealed.  The whole populace thronged from their houses, a thousand troops were drawn up in the square, the expectation of all was wound up to the highest pitch.  A procession directed its course to the church of San Roque; at its head was the captain-general and the Swiss, brandishing in his hand the magic rattan, close behind walked the meiga, the Gallegan witch-wife, by whom the treasure-seeker had been originally guided in the search; numerous masons brought up the rear, bearing implements to break up the ground.  The procession enters the church, they pass through it in solemn march, they find themselves in a vaulted passage.  The Swiss looks around.  “Dig here,” said he suddenly.  “Yes, dig here,” said the meiga.  The masons labour, the floor is broken up,—­a horrible and fetid odour arises. . . .