Would you have the cooks
of Sceira and Stambul submit to be insulted here in Spain by the
sons of counts rushing into the temple with manchets of bread.
Non, non, mon maitre, you are too noble to require that, and what
is more, TOO JUST. But we will talk of other things. Mon maitre,
I came not alone; there is one now waiting in the corridor anxious
to speak to you.
Myself. - Who is it?
Antonio. - One whom you have met, mon maitre, in various and strange
places.
Myself. - But who is it?
Antonio. - One who will come to a strange end, FOR SO IT IS WRITTEN.
The most extraordinary of all the Swiss, he of Saint James, - Der
schatz graber.
Myself. - Not Benedict Mol?
"Yaw, mein lieber herr," said Benedict, pushing open the door which
stood ajar; "it is myself. I met Herr Anton in the street, and
hearing that you were in this place, I came with him to visit you."
Myself. - And in the name of all that is singular, how is it that I
see you in Madrid again? I thought that by this time you were
returned to your own country.
Benedict. - Fear not, lieber herr, I shall return thither in good
time; but not on foot, but with mules and coach. The schatz is
still yonder, waiting to be dug up, and now I have better hope than
ever:
