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: all my bones are sore since I
entered Galicia.
Myself. - And yet you have come to this country, which you call so
miserable, in search of treasure?
Benedict. - Ow yaw, but the schatz is buried; it is not above
ground; there is no money above ground in Galicia. I must dig it
up; and when I have dug it up I will purchase a coach with six
mules, and ride out of Galicia to Lucerne; and if the Herr pleases
to go with me, he shall be welcome to go with me and the schatz.
Myself. - I am afraid that you have come on a desperate errand.
What do you propose to do?
