"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. . . .
Enough; no treasure was found, and my warning to the unfortunate
Swiss turned out but too prophetic. He was forthwith seized and
flung into the horrid prison of Saint James, amidst the execrations
of thousands, who would have gladly torn him limb from limb.
The affair did not terminate here. The political opponents of the
government did not allow so favourable an opportunity to escape for
launching the shafts of ridicule. The Moderados were taunted in
the cortes for their avarice and credulity, whilst the liberal
press wafted on its wings through Spain the story of the treasure-
hunt at Saint James.
"After all, it was a trampa of Don Jorge's," said one of my
enemies. "That fellow is at the bottom of half the picardias which
happen in Spain."
Eager to learn the fate of the Swiss, I wrote to my old friend Rey
Romero, at Compostella. In his answer he states: "I saw the Swiss
in prison, to which place he sent for me, craving my assistance,
for the sake of the friendship which I bore to you. But how could
I help him? He was speedily after removed from Saint James, I know
not whither. It is said that he disappeared on the road."
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Where in the whole cycle
of romance shall we find anything more wild, grotesque, and sad,
than the easily-authenticated history of Benedict Mol, the
treasure-digger of Saint James?
CHAPTER XLIII
Villa Seca - Moorish House - The Puchera - The Rustic Council - Polite
Ceremonial - The Flower of Spain - The Bridge of Azeca - The Ruined
Castle - Taking the Field - Demand for the Word - The Old Peasant - The
Curate and Blacksmith - Cheapness of the Scriptures.
It was one of the most fiercely hot days in which I ever braved the
sun, when I arrived at Villa Seca. The heat in the shade must have
amounted at least to one hundred degrees, and the entire atmosphere
seemed to consist of flickering flame. At a place called Leganez,
six leagues from Madrid, and about half way to Toledo, we diverged
from the highway, bending our course seemingly towards the south-
east. We rode over what are called plains in Spain, but which, in
any other part of the world, would be called undulating and broken
ground. The crops of corn and barley had already disappeared. The
last vestiges discoverable being here and there a few sheaves,
which the labourers were occupied in removing to their garners in
the villages. The country could scarcely be called beautiful,
being perfectly naked, exhibiting neither trees nor verdure. It
was not, however, without its pretensions to grandeur and
magnificence, like every part of Spain. The most prominent objects
were two huge calcareous hills or rather one cleft in twain, which
towered up on high; the summit of the nearest being surmounted by
the ruins of an ancient castle, that of Villaluenga.
