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?
Benedict. - Ow, I begged, I bettled, and so contrived to pick up
some cuartos; and when I reached Toro, I worked at my trade of
soap-making for a time, till the people said I knew nothing about
it, and drove me out of the town. So I went on and begged and
bettled till I arrived at Orense, which is in this country of
Galicia. Ow, I do not like this country of Galicia at all.
Myself. - Why not?
Benedict. - Why! because here they all beg and bettle, and have
scarce anything for themselves, much less for me whom they know to
be a foreign man. O the misery of Galicia. When I arrive at night
at one of their pigsties, which they call posadas, and ask for
bread to eat in the name of God, and straw to lie down in, they
curse me, and say there is neither bread nor straw in Galicia; and
sure enough, since I have been here I have seen neither, only
something that they call broa, and a kind of reedy rubbish with
which they litter the horses:
