When I was
introduced the Archbishop was alone, seated behind a table in a
large apartment, a kind of drawing-room; he was plainly dressed, in
a black cassock and silken cap; on his finger, however, glittered a
superb amethyst, the lustre of which was truly dazzling. He rose
for a moment as I advanced, and motioned me to a chair with his
hand. He might be about sixty years of age; his figure was very
tall, but he stooped considerably, evidently from feebleness, and
the pallid hue of ill health overspread his emaciated features.
When he had reseated himself, he dropped his head, and appeared to
be looking on the table before him.
"I suppose your lordship knows who I am?" said I, at last breaking
silence.
The Archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a
somewhat equivocal manner, but said nothing.
"I am he whom the Manolos of Madrid call Don Jorgito el Ingles; I
am just come out of prison, whither I was sent for circulating my
Lord's Gospel in this kingdom of Spain?"
The Archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head, but
still said nothing.
