He was
always eager to get into prison, and now in evil hour we have sent
him there, el bribonazo; there will be no safety for Spain until he
is hanged; he ought to be sent to the four hells, where at his
leisure he might translate his fatal gospels into the language of
the demons.' "
"I but said three words to the alcayde of the prison," said I,
"relative to the jargon used by the children of the prison."
"Three words! Don Jorge; and what may not be made out of three
words? You have lived amongst us to little purpose if you think we
require more than three words to build a system with: those three
words about the thieves and their tongue were quite sufficient to
cause it to be reported throughout Madrid that you had tampered
with the thieves, had learnt their language, and had written a book
which was to overturn Spain, open to the English the gates of
Cadiz, give Mendizabal all the church plate and jewels, and to Don
Martin Luther the archiepiscopal palace of Toledo."
Late in the afternoon of a rather gloomy day, as I was sitting in
the apartment which the alcayde had allotted me, I heard a rap at
the door. "Who is that?" I exclaimed. "C'est moi, mon maitre,"
cried a well-known voice, and presently in walked Antonio Buchini,
dressed in the same style as when I first introduced him to the
reader, namely, in a handsome but rather faded French surtout, vest
and pantaloons, with a diminutive hat in one hand, and holding in
the other a long and slender cane.
