Whilst Going
Across The Square, I Remembered That This Was The Place Where, In
"The Good Old Times," The Inquisition
Of Spain was in the habit of
holding its solemn Autos da fe, and I cast my eye to the
Balcony of
the city hall, where at the most solemn of them all, the last of
the Austrian line in Spain sat, and after some thirty heretics, of
both sexes, had been burnt by fours and by fives, wiped his face,
perspiring with heat, and black with smoke, and calmly inquired,
"No hay mas?" for which exemplary proof of patience he was much
applauded by his priests and confessors, who subsequently poisoned
him. "And here am I," thought I, "who have done more to wound
Popery, than all the poor Christian martyrs that ever suffered in
this accursed square, merely sent to prison, from which I am sure
to be liberated in a few days, with credit and applause. Pope of
Rome! I believe you to be as malicious as ever, but you are sadly
deficient in power. You are become paralytic, Batuschca, and your
club has degenerated to a crutch."
We arrived at the prison, which stands in a narrow street not far
from the great square. We entered a dusky passage, at the end of
which was a wicket door. My conductors knocked, a fierce visage
peered through the wicket; there was an exchange of words, and in a
few moments I found myself within the prison of Madrid, in a kind
of corridor which overlooked at a considerable altitude what
appeared to be a court, from which arose a hubbub of voices, and
occasionally wild shouts and cries.
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