It was Sunday when the seizure was made, and I happened to be reading the Liturgy.  One of the alguazils, when going away, made an observation respecting the very different manner in which the Protestants and Catholics keep the Sabbath; the former being in their own houses reading good books, and the latter abroad in the bull-ring, seeing the wild bulls tear out the gory bowels of the poor horses.  The bull amphitheatre at Seville is the finest in all Spain, and is invariably on a Sunday (the only day on which it is open) filled with applauding multitudes.

I now made preparations for leaving Seville for a few months, my destination being the coast of Barbary.  Antonio, who did not wish to leave Spain, in which were his wife and children, returned to Madrid, rejoicing in a handsome gratuity with which I presented him.  As it was my intention to return to Seville, I left my house and horses in charge of a friend in whom I could confide, and departed.  The reasons which induced me to visit Barbary will be seen in the following chapters.

CHAPTER L

Night on the Guadalquivir—­Gospel Light—­Bonanza—­Strand of San
Lucar—­Andalusian Scenery—­History of a Chest—­Cosas de los
Ingleses—­The Two Gypsies—­The Driver—­The Red Nightcap—­The Steam
Boat—­Christian Language.

On the night of the 31st of July I departed from Seville upon my expendition, going on board one of the steamers which ply on the Guadalquivir between Seville and Cadiz.

It was my intention to stop at San Lucar, for the purpose of recovering the chest of Testaments which had been placed in embargo there, until such time as they could be removed from the kingdom of Spain.  These Testaments I intended for distribution amongst the Christians whom I hoped to meet on the shores of Barbary.  San Lucar is about fifteen leagues distant from Seville, at the entrance of the bay of Cadiz, where the yellow waters of the Guadalquivir unite with the brine.  The steamer shot from the little quay, or wharf, at about half-past nine, and then arose a loud cry,—­it was the voices of those on board and on shore wishing farewell to their friends.  Amongst the tumult I thought I could distinguish the accents of some friends of my own who had accompanied me to the bank, and I instantly raised my own voice louder than all.  The night was very dark, so much so, indeed, that as we passed along we could scarcely distinguish the trees which cover the eastern shore of the river until it takes its first turn.  A calmazo had reigned during the day at Seville, by which is meant, exceedingly sultry weather, unenlivened by the slightest breeze.  The night likewise was calm and sultry.  As I had frequently made the voyage of the Guadalquivir, ascending and descending this celebrated river, I felt nothing of that restlessness and curiosity which people experience in a strange place, whether in light