"Perhaps not: I was, however, given to understand that my presence
would be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be the case, I
will leave."
"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.
