of expansion. He spoke of experiment in the past tense, and all his
references were to the great teachers of the old world, to Galen and
Hippocrates, to Avicenna and to Rhazes. If he did chance to allude to
the teachers of his own day, it was in rather an apologetic manner,
and by no means in a complimentary sense. Antiquity was everything
to him, and the tenets of the old masters of medicine appeared to
him quite as sacred in their way as the words of the Prophet himself.

In an adjoining classroom Fernando lingered some time to listen to
a professor of astrology. This ancient art had always held a certain
fascination for him, and he was well aware that the Moors were among
its greatest interpreters. The lecturer described at length the
influences which the various planets had upon the destinies of man,
the manner in which their conjunctions and oppositions affected human
affairs, and the characters of persons born under certain astrological
conditions. This science too appeared to him incapable of extension or
fresh effort, and while hearkening to the speaker he found that though
he heard much that his common sense told him was incapable of definite
proof, he gleaned nothing of the nature of those planets themselves,
their physical movement, or their scientific relation to the earth. In
the geography classroom he found that instruction was based upon
more modern lines. The works of Arab travellers who had journeyed
extensively in Asia and Africa were touched upon. The conditions of
life in distant countries of the world were discussed, and as a general
rule with much greater exactitude than in the European schools which
he had visited, where fact was often subordinated to fancy and where
the extraordinary was prized at a much higher rate than the probable.

Leaving the university, the court of which was filled to overflowing
with scholars who appeared to be disputing on various phases of
erudition, Fernando walked to the crowded market-place, a portion
of which, he observed, was given over to the sale of manuscripts,
and this part, he could not help noticing, was much better patronized
than those where food-stuffs and wearing apparel were for sale. In
the more open spaces jugglers and mountebanks, usually accompanied by
performing animals, went through all sorts of gambols and antics. Here
and there small knots of men discussed the more obscure points of
the Koran or of Mohammedan law, while others sat in shady corners,
lazily drinking sherbet or drowsing away the hot morning hours. In
the booths which surrounded the market-place he saw various tradesmen
at work--carpenters, smiths, sandal-makers, tailors--but he noticed
that the efforts of these were of the most leisurely description,
and that their tools were of a type much more antiquated than those
in use among the tradesmen of his own country. The hand of time was
indeed heavy upon the whole race. In some things it appeared to have
made great advances, while in others it seemed to have retained the
primitive ideas of the Dark Ages. Its progress seemed to have been
made in the realm of thought alone, but even here everything was
derivative and had reference to the experiments of an older age.

Strangely enough, however, Fernando felt that much of this conservatism
touched a responsive chord within his own nature.

"Are these people not right," he argued with himself, "when they
let well alone, as the proverb says? If they have brought about a
condition of things which suits them as a race, would it not be folly
in them to embark upon a career of experiment which might prove wholly
unsuitable to them? They seem reasonably happy and contented. Suppose
a condition of affairs such as obtains within my own principality
were suddenly to be forced upon them, would their happiness not be
changed into wretchedness? It must be that long experience has taught
them that their present manner of life is by far the most convenient
for them. Can it be that their dislike of us arises from the great
differences between our institutions and theirs? But, again, is it not
possible that these things are very much on the surface? Their real
natural sympathies and antipathies are, after all, very similar to our
own. They are entirely dependent upon the changes of the seasons and
upon the tillage of the earth for their food; they live constantly
in fear of warfare; the same private troubles between man and man,
between neighbour and neighbour, arise among them as among ourselves;
they are subject to the rule of authority precisely as we are. The
modifications of all these things are, after all, those of place and
circumstance, nor is it possible for any one individual among them to
break away from established custom, any more than it is in Spain. We
do not differ from them in the salient things of life, but only in its
surface details. Their religion teaches that the good are rewarded
and the bad punished, that a man must be constant in his patriotic
and domestic affections. After all, had one of these brown men been
reared in Spain, at the age of twenty years he would have been moved
by the same prejudices as myself, and have become so like me in every
particular as to be indistinguishable from an ordinary Spaniard."

Passing through one of the gates of the city, Fernando walked into
the country. It very much resembled the rural portions of his own
principality, except that it was cultivated with greater care. Here
and there tiny, snow-white farm-steadings nestled in hollows, and
from these streams of reapers and gleaners spread across the fields in
every direction, for it was harvest-time. Fernando joined one of these
groups, and was surprised to find that there was little difference
between it and a similar party in Christian Spain. At intervals the
work of garnering the grain was relaxed, and the reapers sat in a
circle and listened to the music made by one of their number on the
pipe, which possessed a strange melancholy of its own. Fernando found
in them the same simple and easily satisfied disposition that he had
discovered among his own peasantry. They shared their bread and cheese
with him, and tendered him a draught of goat's milk from a large skin
bottle, which he made shift to swallow with rather a wry face, for
princes as a rule do not accustom themselves to the pungent odours of
such a beverage. Thus refreshed, he passed on, walking slowly through
the heat of the day, which was now well advanced, and resting every
now and then beneath the shadows of the roadside trees.

He had advanced perhaps a mile and a half farther on when he came to a
wide, open plain upon which he beheld a large body of Moorish cavalry
performing military evolutions. His soldier's eye took in the scene
with interest, and he was quick to see that the rapid movements of
these lightly armed horsemen were greatly superior to those of his
own heavily accoutred warriors. At the word of command the squadrons
wheeled and charged with surprising unanimity and rapidity, and
when the word was given to halt they did so on the instant, without
scattering or losing the alignment of their ranks. The evolutions of
one of the squadrons brought it quite close to where the prince was
standing, and the officer in command, evidently regarding him as a
pilgrim of sanctity, gave him a courteous salutation.

"I take it, reverend sir," he said, "from the evident pleasure
with which you regard this scene, that you have once been a soldier
yourself?"

"That is quite true," replied Fernando; "I was a soldier for many
years, and saw a good deal of service in another part of the country;
but war is no longer my business, and I do not, as I once did,
cherish it for itself alone."

"But surely," said the soldier, "war is the only career to which a
noble mind can turn? You are young, and have evidently left its ranks
too early."

"Nay," rejoined the prince, "I am ready, if necessity enjoins, to take
up the sword once more, but only in case of unrighteous invasion or
to settle a grievous wrong. As I have said, I no longer desire war
for its own sake."

"But," said the soldier, smiling, "you do not mean that we should be
unprepared for attack? We know not the moment at which the rude and
savage Christians from the north may send a multitude of warriors
against us."

"Nor do they know, my friend, when we shall take it into our heads
to make a foray into their lands," said Fernando.

"But," said the officer, "if we were to do so, it would only be as
a protective measure after all, for we are well aware that they will
never become reconciled to us."

"Have we ever tried to discover that?" asked Fernando. "I fear not. We
have certainly made treaties with them, but these seem to have been
made for the very purpose of being broken."

"Yes," said the officer, his lip curling, "they are treacherous dogs,
these Spaniards, upon whose word no honest man can rely. They have
broken treaty after treaty."

"If I'm not mistaken," said Fernando, "we have done the same, only
our rulers take extraordinary care that the people shall not be
acquainted with the full measure of our national dishonesties, but
shall be told that it was necessary to act in such and such a manner
because of the untrustworthy nature of our enemies. May I ask, sir,
if you have ever travelled in Christian Spain, or have known other
Christians than those whom you may have chanced to take as prisoners?"

The cavalryman shook his head. "Now I come to think of it," he said,
"I have crossed swords with more Spaniards than I have bandied words
with, but I do not doubt, as you imply, that there are noble spirits
among that people, for I know out of my own experience that they are
stout men of war, and a brave soldier can scarcely be other than an
honourable man. But you will excuse me, sir; I can remain no longer. In
the name of God, I wish you a pleasant journey."

Fernando Meets his "Double"

Fernando passed on his way, and this day in his wanderings may
be taken as representative of many another. For three months he
wandered through the Moorish land, studying its institutions and
its people at first hand, and gleaning a practical insight into the
national characteristics. At the end of that time he had conceived
such a high opinion of his one-time foes that it was with heartfelt
sorrow that he turned his steps northward to the borders of his own
principality. Loath to cross them, he resolved to spend the night
at a small khan on the Moorish side of the hills. It was a poor
place, but beautifully situated at the entrance to a peaceful little
valley. Giving his horse to the white-robed ostler, he entered. To
his utter amazement, the first person he encountered was a young man
who so closely resembled himself that he started back in surprise and
dismay, for there was not a lineament in the stranger's countenance
which was not mirrored in his own. The young man thus confronted
also halted abruptly, and stared at his living counterpart; then
a smile broke over his pleasant face, and he said, with a laugh:
"I see, sir, you are as surprised as myself, but I hope you are not
angry that God has made us so alike, for I have heard that people
who closely resemble one another are apt to cherish a mutual distrust."

"There is small danger of that, friend," said Fernando, "for if God has
made our minds as like each other as He has fashioned our bodies, I am
convinced that you are of a liberal and unconventional disposition,"
and, laughing heartily, he indicated a table. "It would be fitting,"
he continued, "that we should break bread together."

"Agreed!" cried the other; "I accept your invitation with all the
goodwill in the world." And, seating themselves at the rough board,
the two young men were soon engaged in an animated conversation. Much
as they had been surprised at the physical resemblance between them,
they were even more astonished at the close similarity they bore to
one another in taste and disposition. For hours they sat in close
discussion. At last the stranger said: "I feel as if we had known
each other for a lifetime, and as I am certain that I can trust you
thoroughly, I will reveal to you my secret. Know then that I am Muza,
the prince of this country, and that I am even now returned from a
prolonged journey in the land of the Christians, whose character and
customs it had long been my desire to study."

"I am indeed honoured by your Majesty's condescension and confidence,"
replied Fernando, "and you may rest assured that your secret will
remain inviolate with me. But may I ask what opinion you formed of
the inhabitants of Christian Spain during your sojourn among them?"

"Such a high opinion," replied Muza, "that it is with the greatest
regret that I quit their country, for I find among them a spirit so
much more in consonance with my own than that of my native subjects
that I solemnly assure you I had much rather rule over them than over
my own people."

"Have then your wish, noble Muza," said Fernando, rising, "for I am
none other than Fernando, prince of the Christians, who, impelled by
a similar desire, has been travelling in your dominions, and who has
conceived such a strong predilection for the character and customs of
its people that he asks nothing better than to be permitted to guide
their destinies. That I am what I represent myself to be you may know
by this token," and, searching beneath his burnous, Fernando drew out
a gold chain, from which was suspended his royal signet. "There is,
so far as I can see," he continued, "but one possible bar to our
compact, and that is the difference between our religions."

"Nay, Fernando," said Muza, with uplifted hands, "I find no difficulty
in that, for, as I understand the matter, the difference is merely
one of exteriors. The inward spirit of our faiths is the same, and
it is only in their outward manifestations that they present any
divergency. Both spring from the one God, Who designed them for the
uses of differently constituted races, and if you agree with me that
this is so, there should be no greater difficulty in our embracing
the religions of each other's people than in accepting their customs."

"I heartily agree," replied Fernando, "but what I fear is that we
shall not be able to convince our respective peoples of the purity
of our motives. They certainly must not share our secret."

"Our great safeguard," said Muza, "is the extraordinary resemblance
between us, but it will be necessary that we should instruct each other
in our past histories, and in the intricacies of our personal affairs,
in order that ignorance of these may not give rise to suspicion."

"You speak like a wise man," rejoined Fernando; "let us address
ourselves to this business at once."

Far into the night the two young princes sat initiating each other
into the intimacies of their respective national diplomacies and
personal relationships, and at last, when morning broke, they parted
with every mark of mutual esteem, mounted their horses, and rode off,
Fernando to the capital of the Moor, Muza to that of the Christian. But
ere they parted they agreed to meet at the inn where they had first
forgathered at least once in three months, in order to discuss any
eventualities which might arise.

Three months passed rapidly, and, prompt to the day, the two young
rulers met once more at the inn. There was a noticeable stiffness in
the manner of their greeting.

"And how fare you, noble Muza, in the kingdom of my fathers?" asked
Fernando.

"Alas! your Majesty," replied Muza, "I am constrained to say that I
fare but ill. Every day your advisers present to me new schemes of
aggression against my late kingdom to which I can give no manner of
countenance, and they upbraid me bitterly with what they are pleased
to call my disloyalty."

"Precisely the same thing has happened to myself," said Fernando,
"and may I say, with all due regard to the race from which you spring,
that they do not compare in liberality of outlook with my own, that
they are extremely conservative, and difficult of comprehension!"

"On the other hand," said Muza, "I find your people much too active
and unruly, and I do not encounter the same implicit obedience to
which I have hitherto been accustomed. If I may say so, there is a
want of dignity----"

"I find some of my personal relations awkward too," groaned Fernando;
"your matrimonial arrangements, for example."

"And your lack of the same," replied Muza.

"On the whole I think----" said Fernando.

"I fully agree," replied Muza.

"If we put the matter in a nutshell," remarked Fernando, "it is better
for a man--even a liberal-minded one--to remain in the bosom of his
own people, for no matter how broad his views may be, among strangers
he must constantly be doomed to encounter much which will tend to
strengthen his prejudices against them and create odious comparisons
and regrets."

"Once more I agree," said Muza. "When once the novelty wears off----"

"Exactly," responded Fernando. "After all, what country can compare
with that in which one has been born?"

So the two princes parted, each to take his way to his native
land. But, despite the threats and entreaties of their advisers,
neither of them would ever again consent to make war upon the dominions
of the other, and it was even hinted by disgruntled and badly disposed
persons that Fernando and Muza met occasionally on their common
frontiers for the sole purpose of settling difficulties which had
arisen between their respective states--an unnatural proceeding which
they avowed was bound sooner or later to end in political disaster.

CHAPTER XII: TALES OF SPANISH MAGIC AND SORCERY

Spain seems to have been regarded by the other countries of Western
Europe as the special abode of superstition, sorcery, and magic,
probably because of the notoriety given to the discoveries of
the Moorish alchemists, the first scientists in Europe. But with
the coming of the Inquisition a marked and natural falling off is
noticeable in the prevalence of occult belief, for anything which
in the least tended to heresy was repressed in the most rigid manner
by that illiberal institution. In this way much of the folk-lore and
peasant belief of Spain, many fascinating legends, and many a curious
custom have been lost, never to be recovered. The Brothers, in their
zeal for the purity of their Church, banished not only the witch,
the sorcerer, and the demon from Spain, but also the innocent fairy,
the spirits of wood and wold, and those household familiars which
harm no one, but assist the housewife and the dairymaid.

The first information we receive that the authorities intended a
campaign against the whole demonhood, good and evil, of Spain is
contained in a work by Alfonso de Speria, a Castilian Franciscan, who
wrote, about 1458 or 1460, a work specially directed against heretics
and unbelievers, in which he gives a chapter on those popular beliefs
which were derived from ancient pagan practices. The belief in witches,
whom he calls xurguine (jurguia) or bruxe, seems to have been imported
from Dauphiné or Gascony, where, he tells us, they abounded. They
were, he says, wont to assemble at night in great numbers on a high
tableland, carrying candles with them, for the purpose of worshipping
Satan, who appeared to them in the form of a boar, rather than in
that of the he-goat in which he so frequently manifested himself in
other localities.

Llorente, in his History of the Inquisition in Spain, states that the
first auto-de-fé against sorcery was held at Calabarra in 1507, when
thirty women charged with witchcraft by the Inquisition were burnt. In
the first treatise on Spanish sorcery, that of Martin de Castanaga,
a Franciscan monk (1529), we learn that Navarre was regarded as the
motherland of Spanish witchcraft, and that that province sent many
'missionaries' to Aragon to convert its women to sorcery. But we
find that the Spanish theologians of the sixteenth century were
so much more enlightened than those of other countries that they
admitted that witchcraft was merely a delusion, and the punishment
they meted out to those who believed in it was inflicted in respect
that the belief, erroneous though it was, was contrary to the tenets
of the Church. Pedro de Valentin, in a treatise on the subject (1610),
entirely adopts the opinion that the acts confessed to by the witches
were imaginary. He attributed them partly to the manner in which the
examinations were carried out, and to the desire of the ignorant people
examined to escape by saying what seemed to please their persecutors,
and partly to the effect of the ointments and draughts which they had
been taught to use, which were composed of ingredients that produced
sleep and acted upon the imagination and the mental faculties.

The Religion of Witchcraft

This view is very generally held at the present time as accounting for
the phenomena of witchcraft. But the researches of Charles Godfrey
Leland, Miss M. A. Murray, and others, seem to indicate that the
cult of witchcraft is by no means a thing of the imagination. The
last-named writer, indeed, claims that it is the detritus of an
ancient pagan faith surviving into modern times, having a priesthood
and well-defined ritual of its own, and in a measure conserving the
practice of child-sacrifice.

There can be little doubt that this conception of witchcraft is the
correct one. In the records of the caste there are numerous proofs
that it had a definite ritual and an established priesthood, and
that imagination played but a small part in shaping the belief of
the adherents of the cult. [55]

The Story of Dr Torralva

Spain had not in the sixteenth century ceased to be celebrated for its
magicians, who still retained a modicum of the occult philosophy of
the Moorish doctors of Toledo and Granada. Perhaps the most celebrated
of these comparatively modern masters of magic was Doctor Eugenio
Torralva, physician to the family of the Admiral of Castile. Educated
at Rome, he early became a pronounced sceptic, and formed an intimacy
with a certain Master Alfonso, a man who, after changing his Jewish
faith for Islam, and that again for Christianity, had at last become
a free-thinker. Another evil companion was a Dominican monk called
Brother Pietro, who told Torralva that he had in his service a good
angel called Zequiel, who had no equal in the spiritual world as a
seer, and was besides of such a disinterested temperament that he
served only those who had complete confidence in him and deserved
his attachment.

All this excited Torralva's curiosity to an unbounded degree. He
was one of those people, fortunate or otherwise, in whom the love of
mystery has been deeply implanted, and when Pietro generously proposed
to resign his familiar spirit to his friend's keeping he eagerly
accepted the offer. Nor did Zequiel himself offer any opposition
to this change of master, and, appearing at the summons of Pietro,
assured Torralva that he would follow his service as long as he lived,
and wherever he was obliged to go. There was nothing very startling
in the appearance of the spirit, who was dressed in a flesh-coloured
habit and black cloak, and had the appearance of a young man with an
abundance of fair hair.

From this time onward Zequiel appeared to Torralva at every change
of the moon, and as often as the physician required his services,
which was generally for the purpose of transporting him in a short
space of time to distant places. Sometimes the spirit assumed the
appearance of a hermit, at others that of a traveller, and even
accompanied his master to church, from which circumstance Torralva
concluded that he was a beneficent and Christian-minded spirit. But,
alas! Dr Torralva was to find, like many another, that attendance at
the sacred edifice is not necessarily a guarantee of piety.

For many years Torralva continued to reside in Italy, but in the year
1502 he felt a strong desire to return to the land of his birth. He
did so, but seems to have made Rome his headquarters once more in
the following year, placing himself under the protection of his old
patron, the Bishop of Volterra, now become a cardinal. The influence
this connexion brought him proved of the greatest service to him, and
he soon rose to high repute for his skill in medicine. But neither the
pious cardinal nor any of the other distinguished patients who sought
his aid knew that he drew practically all his medical knowledge from
his unseen famulus, who taught him the secret virtues of young plants,
with which other physicians were not acquainted. Zequiel, however,
was untainted by the love of lucre; for when his master pocketed
those 'thumping' fees to which all good physicians aspire the spirit
rebuked him, telling him that since he had received his knowledge
for nothing he ought to impart it gratuitously. On the other hand,
did the doctor require funds, he never failed to find a supply of
money in his private apartment, which he knew implicitly must have
been placed there by his familiar.

Torralva returned to Spain in 1510, and lived for some time at the
Court of Ferdinand the Catholic. One day Zequiel confided to him that
the King would shortly receive some very disagreeable news. Torralva at
once communicated this piece of intelligence to Ximenes de Cisneros,
Archbishop of Toledo, and to the Grande Capitan, Gonzalvo Hernández
de Cordova. On the same day a courier arrived from Africa bearing
dispatches which informed his Majesty that an expedition against the
Moors had met with disaster, and that its commander, Don Garcia de
Toledo, son of the Duke of Alva, had been slain.

When in Rome it appears that Torralva had been so indiscreet as
to summon Zequiel to appear before his patron, Cardinal Volterra,
who now, hearing of the manner in which his protégé had 'prophesied'
the disaster to the Spanish arms, acquainted the Archbishop of Toledo
with the means by which the doctor had received intelligence of the
defeat. Torralva, ignorant of this, continued in his forecasts of
political and other events, and soon found his reputation as a seer
greatly enhanced. Among others who consulted him was the Cardinal
of Santa Cruz, to whom a certain Donna Rosales had complained that
her nights were disturbed by a frightful phantom, which appeared in
the form of a murdered man. Her physician, Morales, had watched at
night with the lady, but although she had pointed out the precise
spot where the grisly vision took its stand, he could discern nothing.

Torralva accompanied Morales to the lady's house, and, seated in
an ante-chamber, they heard her cry of alarm about an hour after
midnight. Entering her apartment, Morales again confessed his inability
to see the apparition, but Torralva, who was better acquainted with
the spiritual world, perceived a figure resembling a dead man, behind
which appeared a shadowy female form. "What dost thou seek here?" he
inquired, in a firm voice, whereupon the foremost spirit replied:
"I seek a treasure," and immediately vanished. Torralva consulted
Zequiel upon the subject, and upon his advice the cellars of the house
were dug up, whereupon the corpse of a man who had been stabbed to
death with a poignard was discovered, and upon its receiving Christian
burial the visitations ceased.

Among Torralva's intimate friends was one Don Diego de Zuñiga,
a relative of the Duke of Bejar, and brother of Don Antonio, Grand
Prior of the Order of St John in Castile. Zuñiga had consulted the
learned doctor as to how he could gain money at play by magical means,
and Torralva informed him that this could be accomplished by writing
certain characters on paper, using for ink the blood of a bat. This
charm Torralva advised him to wear about his neck, so that he might
experience good luck at the gaming-table.

In 1520 Torralva went once more to Rome. Ere he left Spain he told
Zuñiga that he would be able to travel there astride a broomstick,
the course of which would be guided by a cloud of fire. On his arrival
at Rome he interviewed Cardinal Volterra, and the Grand Prior of the
Order of St John, who earnestly begged him to abandon all commerce with
his familiar spirit. Because of their exhortations, Torralva requested
Zequiel to leave his service, but met with a stern refusal. The spirit,
however, advised him to return to Spain, assuring him that he would
obtain the place of physician to the Infanta Eleanora, Queen-Dowager
of Portugal, and later consort of Francis I of France. Acting upon
this counsel, Torralva sailed once more for the land of his birth,
and obtained the promised appointment.

In 1525 an incident occurred which greatly enhanced Torralva's
celebrity as a seer. On the 5th of May of that year Zequiel assured
him that the troops of the Emperor would take Rome on the following
day. Torralva desired the spirit to carry him to Rome so that he might
witness this great event with his own eyes. Zequiel gave him a stick
full of knots, and commanded him to shut his eyes. Torralva obeyed the
request of the famulus, and when after a space the spirit told him to
open his eyes once more, he found himself in Rome, standing on a high
tower. The hour was midnight, and when day dawned he duly witnessed the
terrible events which followed--the death of the Constable of Bourbon,
the flight of the Pope into the Castle of St Angelo, the slaughter
of the citizens, and the wild riot of the conquerors. Returning to
Valladolid by the same means as that by which he had come, Torralva
immediately made public all he had seen, and when, a week or so later,
news arrived of the capture and sack of Rome, the Court of Spain was
very naturally filled with unbounded surprise.

Many persons of high rank had been accomplices of the gifted doctor
in his practice of the black art, and one of these, in a fit of
remorse, notified the Holy Inquisition of his dealings with the
supernatural. Zuñiga too, who had benefited so greatly by the occult
knowledge of Torralva, now turned against him, and denounced him
to the Holy Office of Cuença, which had him arrested and cast into
prison. The terrified magician immediately confessed all his doings
with Zequiel, whom he persisted in regarding as a beneficent spirit,
and penned no less than eight declarations of his dealings with the
supernatural, some of which contradicted statements made in others
in a most ludicrous manner. In view of their unsatisfactory nature,
the unhappy necromancer was put to the torture, and an admission
of the demonic nature of his familiar was quickly extracted from
him. In March 1529 the Inquisitors suspended his process for a year,
a common practice of the Inquisition, which thus attempted to wear
its victims down. But, to the dismay of Torralva, a new witness made
his appearance, who testified that in his early days at Rome the
imprisoned medico was prone to indulgence in occult arts, so that in
January 1530 Torralva was once more put upon his trial. The Inquisition
appointed two learned theologians to labour for his conversion, to whom
Torralva promised amendment in everything, except the renunciation of
the evil spirit with whom he had been associated for so long, assuring
his mentors that he had not the power to dismiss Zequiel. At length,
on his making a pretence to cast off his familiar and abjure his
heresies, he was released, and entered the service of the Admiral of
Castile, who had employed all his influence to obtain a pardon for
him. Immortalized in the pages of Don Quixote, he remains for all
time the archetype of the Spanish magician of the sixteenth century.

Moorish Magic

By no race was the practice of the occult arts studied with such
perseverance as by the Moors of Spain, and it is strange indeed that
only fragmentary notices of their works in this respect remain to
us. The statement that they were famous for magical and alchemical
studies is reiterated by numerous European historians, but the majority
of these have refrained from any description of their methods, and
the Moors themselves have left so few undoubted memorials of their
labours in this direction that we remain in considerable ignorance of
the trend of their efforts, so that if we desire any knowledge upon
this most recondite subject we must perforce collect it painfully
from the fragmentary notices of it in contemporary European and
Arabic literature.

The first name of importance which we encounter in the broken annals
of Moorish occultism is a great one--that of the famous Geber, who
flourished about 720-750, and who is reported to have penned upward
of five hundred works upon the philosopher's stone and the elixir of
life. In common with his fellow-alchemists, he appears to have failed
signally in his search for those marvellous elements, but if he was
unable to point the way to immortal life and boundless wealth, he is
said to have given mankind the nitrate of silver, corrosive sublimate,
and nitric acid. He believed that a preparation of gold would heal
all diseases in both animals and plants, as well as in human beings,
and that all metals were in a condition of chronic sickness in so
far that they had departed from their natural and original state
of gold. His works, all of which are in Latin, are not considered
authentic, but his Summa Perfectionis, a manual for the alchemical
student, has frequently been translated.

The Moorish alchemists taught that all metals are composed of varying
proportions of mercury and sulphur. They laboured strenuously to
multiply drugs out of the various mixtures and reactions of the
few chemicals at their disposal, but although they believed in the
theory of transmutation of metals they did not strive to effect
it. It belonged to their creed rather than to their practice. They
were a school of scientific artisans and experimentalists, first and
last. They probably owed their alchemical knowledge to Byzantium,
which in turn had received it from Egypt; or it may be that the Arabs
drew their scientific inspiration at first hand from the land of the
Nile, where the 'great art' of alchemy undoubtedly had its birth.

Astrology

Astrology was also an important branch of occult study with the Moors
of Spain, whose consideration of it greatly assisted the science
of mathematics, especially that branch of it which still retains
its Arabic name--algebra (al = the, jabara = to set, compute). It is
probable that the Arabs first received an insight into the practice of
foretelling events by the position of the planets at a given time from
the Chaldeans, who undoubtedly were its earliest students. References
to astrology are plentifully encountered in Spanish story, as the
reader will have observed. But high as it stood in the estimation
of the Moorish sages, it was still subservient to the grander and
more mysterious art of magic, whereby the spirits of the air could
be forced to do the will of the magus, and carry out his behests in
four elements. Most unfortunately, we are almost entirely ignorant of
the tenets of Moorish magic, owing probably to the circumstance that
it was averse to the spirit of Islam. But we know that it was founded
upon Alexandrian magic, and therefore recognized the principles of that
art as laid down by the great Hermes Trismegistus, who was none other
than the Egyptian Thoth, the god of writing, computation, and wisdom.

About the end of the tenth century the learned men of Europe began
to resort to Spain for the purpose of studying the arts, occult
and otherwise. Among the first to do so was Gerbert, afterward Pope
Sylvester II, who spent several years in Cordova, and who introduced
into Christendom the knowledge of the Arabic numerals and the no
less useful art of clock-making. Strange that he did not apply his
knowledge of the one to the other, and that even to-day our timepieces
are burdened with the old and cumbrous Roman numerals! William
of Malmesbury assures us that Gerbert made many discoveries of
treasure through the art of necromancy, and relates how he visited a
magnificent subterranean palace, which, though dazzling to the sight,
would not remain when its splendours were subjected to the test of
human touch. Ignorant Europe took Gerbert's mathematical diagrams
for magical signs, and his occult reputation increased as his moral
character withered. It was said that the Devil had promised him that
he should not die until he had celebrated high mass at Jerusalem. One
day Gerbert celebrated his office in the Church of the Holy Cross
of Jerusalem at Rome, and, feeling ill, asked where he was, observed
the double entendre of the Evil One, and expired. Such was the tale
that benighted ignorance cast round the memory of this single-minded
and enlightened man, much in the same spirit as it bedevilled the
recollections of our own Michael Scot and Roger Bacon.

The Dean of Santiago

In the Conde Lucanor, a Spanish collection of tales and homilies
of the fourteenth century, already alluded to, is a story of the
Dean of Santiago, who went to Illan, a magician of Toledo, to be
instructed in necromancy. The magus raised a difficulty, saying that
as the Dean was a man of influence, and would attain a high position,
he would probably forget all past obligations. The Dean, however,
protested that no matter to what eminence he attained he would not
fail to remember and assist his former friends, and particularly his
tutor in things supernatural. Satisfied with the churchman's promises,
the necromancer led his pupil to a remote apartment, first requesting
his housekeeper to purchase some partridges for supper, but not to
cook them until she had definite orders to do so.

When the Dean and his instructor had settled themselves to the business
before them, they were interrupted in their labours by a messenger,
who came to inform the Dean that his uncle, the Archbishop, had
summoned him to his death-bed. Being unwilling, however, to forgo
the instruction he was about to receive, he excused himself from the
duty. Four days later, another messenger arrived, informing the Dean of
the Archbishop's death, and later he learned that he had been appointed
Archbishop in his uncle's place. On hearing this, Illan requested the
vacant deanery for his son. But the new Archbishop preferred his own
brother, inviting, however, Illan and his son to accompany him to
his see. Later the deanery became vacant once more, and once again
the magician begged that his son might be appointed to it. But the
Archbishop refused his suit, in favour of one of his own uncles. Two
years later the Archbishop became a cardinal, and was summoned to Rome,
with liberty to appoint his successor in the see. Once more Illan was
disappointed. At length the Cardinal was elected Pope, and Illan, who
had accompanied him to Rome, reminded him that he had now no excuse
for not fulfilling the promises he had so often made to him. The
Pope, in anger, threatened to have Illan cast into prison and starved
as a heretic and sorcerer. "Ingrate!" cried the incensed magician,
"since you would thus starve me, I must perforce fall back upon the
partridges I ordered for to-night's supper."

With these words he waved his wand, and called to his housekeeper
to prepare the birds. Instantly the Dean found himself once more in
Toledo, still Dean of Santiago, for, indeed, the years he had spent
as Archbishop, Cardinal, and Pope were illusory, and had existed only
in his imagination at the suggestion of the magus. This was the means
the sage had taken to test his character, before committing himself to
his hands, and so crestfallen was the churchman that he had nothing to
reply to the reproaches of Illan, who sent him off without permitting
him to sup upon the partridges!

It is strange that physicians and priests figure most notably as the
heroes of Spanish magical story--strange, until we reflect upon the
manner in which the learned classes were regarded by an illiterate
and illiberal commonalty. Torquemada tells a story of a youth of his
acquaintance, a young man of great ability, who was afterward physician
to the Emperor Charles V. When he was a student at Guadalupe, and
was travelling to Granada, he was invited by a traveller, dressed
in the garments of a churchman, whom he had obliged in some manner,
to mount behind him on his horse, and he would carry him to his
destination. The horse seemed a sorry jade, unable to carry the
weight of two able-bodied men, and at first the student refused the
mount, but, on pressure, at length accepted a seat behind the seeming
ecclesiastic. The horseman requested his companion not to fall asleep
in the saddle, and they jogged on, without any appearance of their
going at an extraordinary rate. At daybreak, to the student's surprise,
he found himself near the city of Granada, where the horseman left him,
marvelling that the distance between two places so widely separated
could have been covered in a single night.

Spectres and Apparitions

As might be imagined, the strong vein of superstition in the Spanish
character, if subdued to some extent by the harsh dictates of the Holy
Office, yet rose triumphant in other spheres of occult belief. We find,
for example, a widely diffused belief in the power of the dead to
return to the scenes of previous existence, and this superstition is
well illustrated by a weird passage in the thrilling and mysterious
pages of Goulart, who in his Trésor des Histoires admirables [56]
knows well how to mingle shadows with the colours on his palette.

He tells us how Juan Vasquez Ayala and two other young Spaniards,
on their way to a French university, were unable to find suitable
accommodation at a certain village where they had halted for the night,
and were obliged to take shelter in a deserted house, the reputation
of which as a haunted vicinity had flourished for a considerable time
among the villagers.

The young men made the best of matters, borrowed articles of
furniture from several neighbouring houses, and resolved to give a
warm reception to any supernatural visitant who should have a mind
to pay them a call. But on the first night of their occupancy they
had scarcely fallen asleep when they were awakened by a noise as of
clanking chains, which seemed to proceed from the lower regions of
their temporary dwelling.

Absolutely fearless, young Ayala leaped from his bed and, donning his
clothes, sallied downstairs in search of the cause of the clamour which
had awakened himself and his comrades. In one hand he carried his drawn
sword, in the other a lighted candle, and on coming to a door which
led to the courtyard of the house he perceived a dreadful spectre--a
grisly skeleton, standing in the entrance. The grim apparition which
confronted him was loaded with chains, which clanked with a doomful
and melancholy sound on the ears of the gallant young student, who,
however, undismayed by the spectacle before him, advanced the point
of his sword and demanded the intruder's reason for disturbing his
rest. The phantom waved its arms, shook its bony head, and beckoned
with its hand, as if asking Ayala to follow it. The student expressed
his willingness to do so, on which the ghost commenced to descend
a flight of steps, dragging its legs as it went like a man whose
limbs were weighted with iron shackles. Ayala followed fearlessly,
but as he advanced his candle suddenly flickered and went out, a
circumstance which did little to reinforce his courage. "Hold!" he
called to the phantom. "You perceive my candle has gone out. If you
will wait till I relight it, I shall return in a moment."

Rushing to a light which burned in the hall, he relit his candle, and
returned to the spot where he had left the apparition. He entered the
garden, where he saw a well, close by which he perceived the ghost,
which signed to him to continue his progress, and having gone a little
way forward, vanished.

Puzzled, the student returned to his apartment, and told his comrades
to accompany him to the garden, but search as they might, nothing
could they find. Next day they reported what had occurred to the
alcalde of the village, who had the garden examined, with the result
that immediately beneath the spot where the phantom had disappeared
a skeleton was exhumed, loaded with chains. When proper burial had
been given to the remains the noises in the house abruptly ceased,
but the adventure proved too much for the superstitious Spaniards, who
returned home abruptly, without fulfilling the object of their journey.

This tale is a capital example of the typical ghost story in
its earliest phase. I will not descant upon it here, as a book on
Spanish romance and legend is scarcely the place for a disquisition
on the occult. But we are learning, slowly and painfully perhaps,
to regard these matters from another point of view than our Victorian
grandfathers, whose materialism pooh-poohed the supernatural without
trying to account for it. In any case I am one of those who believe
in it and who desire to believe in it, so that the reflections of
such a biased person are perhaps better dispensed with.

Torquemada tells a gruesome story of one Antonio Costilla, a Spanish
gentleman, who one day left his mansion, well mounted, on a matter of
personal business. When he had ridden several leagues, night suddenly
fell, and he resolved to return to his home, but to his dismay he was
overtaken by the darkness, and seeing a light ahead rode his horse
at a walk in its direction. He saw that it proceeded from a small
hermitage, and, dismounting, he entered the little chapel and engaged
in prayer. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw that
he was not alone, for the hermitage was occupied by three persons, who
lay upon the ground, wrapped in black mantles. They did not address
him, but lay regarding him with wild, melancholy eyes. Terrified,
he knew not by what, he leaped into the saddle and rode off. In a
little while the moon shone out, and showed him the three men whom he
thought he had left in the chapel riding a little in front of him on
black horses. In order to avoid them, he turned down a by-path, but
to his horror still observed them riding a few paces ahead. Spurring
madly on, yet always preceded by those whom he desired to avoid, he
came in time to the gate of his own house, where he dismounted, and
led his horse into the courtyard--only to find there the three cloaked
figures awaiting him. He rushed into the house, and entered his wife's
apartment, calling for help. Instantly the entire household came to
his assistance, but although he screamed loudly that the three fiends
or apparitions stood by the couch on which he had thrown himself,
they were invisible to all others. A few days later the wretched
Costilla died, maintaining to the last that three forms with glaring
eyes stood over his bed, menacing him with frightful gestures.

Pity it is that our knowledge of the supernatural as manifested in
Spain is so slight and fragmentary. But the dread of the sorcerer's
fate was heavy upon the people, and the fear of torture by rack or
fire successfully banished witch, wizard, fay, and phantom from the
fields and cities of the Peninsula.

CHAPTER XIII: HUMOROUS ROMANCES OF SPAIN

                            Cervantes, the bold metal of thy lance
                            Shatters the crystal turrets of Romance;
                            Down falls the wreck in ruin most immense
                            Upon the dreary plains of common sense.

                                                                   L. S.

Cervantes' "Don Quixote"

Cervantes was one of the world's great satirists, a man gifted with
a keen and peculiar sense of the ridiculous. He would himself have
been the first to laugh at those modern critics who professed to
see in him a great poet, and indeed, at the end of his days, when
he assessed his life's work in his mock-heroic Voyage to Parnassus,
he admitted that he had not the poetic gift. That he had a golden
imagination is obvious to anyone who cares to read his Galatea,
imitative as it is, and Don Quixote overflows with imagination and
invention, although certain later passages of the wondrous satire
are extremely reminiscent of some of its earlier pages.

To me Don Quixote has always seemed one of the most precious and
curious of books, but probably for very different reasons from those by
which it makes its appeal to the majority of people, for it is because
of the information it affords concerning romantic literature and
customs that I treasure it most. Where the satire is really legitimate
I revel in the fun as much as it is possible for anyone to do, but
I feel that many of its passages are rather shabbily iconoclastic,
and that some of its strictures are levelled not only against the
absurdities of chivalric extravagance, but against the whole spirit
and structure of romance. It had been well, too, for Cervantes had
he confined himself entirely to the satiric vein, for when he essays
to employ the very literary vehicle at which he chiefly scoffed he
frequently becomes more maudlin--that is the only word for it--than
the most sentimental writers against whom he girds. His shepherds
and shepherdesses and his runaway nuns are long-winded and pedantic,
and he was indeed badly bitten by that tiresome Arcadian phase in
European literature which culminated in the prose pastoral, which
had its roots in false conventions and employed as its mise en scène
an atmosphere of sham rural felicity. Sannazaro, in his Arcadia,
had indeed piped the tune to which Cervantes danced for many a day
ere his own strong common sense showed him the fatuity of the models
which he followed. The author of the Pastor de Filida, Luiz Galvez
de Montalvo, was his own close friend, and there is every evidence
that he made wholesale raids upon the distinctly minor efforts of
such poetasters as Hebrao and Alonso Perez. The works of the men who
composed this school of pseudo-Arcadianism had none of the charm of
the delightful canvases of Watteau and Fragonard, silk-coated and
satin-gowned though their shepherds and shepherdesses be. The country
of the Spanish pastoral had a background of pasteboard scenery, and
theatrical effects of lighting flashed across its stage. It was peopled
by bores of the most intolerable description, who, instead of looking
after their live stock, as they were paid to do, wearied each other and
the wretched traveller who was unhappy enough to encounter them with
their amorous bellowings and interminable tales of misfortune. Little
wonder that the native good sense of Cervantes recoiled later from
this unworthy and unmanly nonsense. But it is extraordinary that
although he meted out such merciless treatment to chivalric romance,
he still retained a weakness for the follies of Arcady, from which,
to the last, he was unable to free himself.

The circumstances of Cervantes' career undoubtedly assisted him
to discipline his ideas. As a collector of taxes he had, perforce,
to come into contact with the seamy side of life, and much of his
time was spent in the Bohemian atmosphere of inns, where he was
compelled to lodge while he worked the district allotted to him. In
these circumstances and in these places he encountered men and women
of flesh and blood, and came up against the iron wall of hard,
solid reality. Such an experience is undoubtedly most valuable
to a man of romantic or imaginative temperament, gifted with
creative ability. It tempers his natural capacities and enlarges
his views. Doubtless Cervantes, when he first went his rounds, had
been in the habit of regaling his fellow-travellers in the posadas
in which he sojourned with high-falutin stories of errant shepherds
and wandering shepherdesses. We can imagine the degree of amusement
with which the rough muleteer, the blunt soldier, and the travelling
quack would greet those sallies. The criticism of such people is not
strained--it is annihilating! Can we doubt that the laughter with
which his earlier rhapsodies were received in company of this sort
blew away the fantastic cobwebs from Cervantes' brain?

I have already indicated that in the age in which he lived the romance
proper had fallen into considerable popular disfavour. This was due
partly to the circumstances of a changed environment, and partly to
the type of literary opinion which had recently been fostered by the
rise of the Spanish drama, which had brought about an entirely new
literary ideal. Can it be that Cervantes, finding that his audiences
regarded the Arcadian type of tale with disfavour, attributed this
to the circumstance that it was fashionable in high circles, and
fell back upon the romance, only to find that it too was greeted
with guffaws and laughed out of the inn parlour? Was it in the quips
and sneers of such audiences, the very antithesis of the romantic
personages of whom he had dreamed, that the idea of Don Quixote took
shape in his brain, and that in the laughter of clowns and men of the
hard world, of the struggling lower middle class, he perceived the
certain popularity which a caricature of chivalry would enjoy? So,
it seems to me, it may have been.

For many a year the sham romance of chivalry had been regarded as
a pest. Serious and responsible writers had thundered against it,
and there is every evidence that in a measure it stood between
a certain section of the people of Spain and anything like mental
advancement. It had, indeed, turned the heads of that portion of the
nation unaccustomed to think for itself, and unable to form a rational
opinion regarding its demerits. In all countries and at all times,
this class, usually impressionable and easily led, falls an easy prey
to the blandishments of the hack writer of sensational proclivities. It
is not too much to say that unhealthy sensationalism in literature
constitutes a real and active danger to national well-being. It seduces
the people from their duties, unfits them for the serious business of
life, renders them pretentious rather than independent, and leads them
to the belief that they reflect the virtues or vices of the absurd
heroes and heroines of their favourite tales. The one weapon which
the more sensible portion of the community can bring to bear against
such a pernicious condition of affairs is healthy ridicule, which
it usually meets with from the rational and the well-balanced. But
the danger exists that in the revulsion of public feeling against
literary extravagance not only the absurdities which have obsessed
the thoughtless and irritated the sensible will undergo destruction
and banishment, but those higher virtues and graces of which they
are the distorted reflection will not be discriminated against, but
will be demolished along with them. Such, indeed, was the fate which
befell the greater romances, those jewels of human imagination, which,
although Cervantes himself made an effort to save them, shared in the
general wreck and ruin of the fiction of which they were the flower,
until the taste and insight of a later day excavated them from the
super-incumbent mass under which they lay buried.

The Figure of Don Quixote

Don Quixote, the central figure of the mighty satire which gave its
death-blow to chivalry, is perhaps typical of the romance reader of
Cervantes' day. Crack-brained and imaginative to the verge of madness,
he is entirely lost to the uses of everyday existence. He lives in a
world of his own, and has nothing in common with that of his time,
to the spirit of which he cannot adapt himself. In this gentleman
of La Mancha the vices of the imagination are well portrayed, but
they are unaccompanied by those gifts through which imagination
can be rendered of utility to the community. Don Quixote dwells on
the heights of a chivalric Parnassus, a land of magic peopled by
the spectres and shadows which he has encountered in the books with
which his library is so well furnished. His imagination is thus not
even creative, but derivative; reliance upon the "idols he has loved
so long" has "done his credit in men's eyes much wrong," and he is
regarded by his neighbours as an amiable lunatic of no importance. But
the dreamer, when roused to action, can be a very terrible person if
his visions chance to direct him astray, and if he attempt to realize
a nightmare. Thus it was with Don Quixote. Scarcely mad enough for
confinement, but yet sufficiently crazy to become a public nuisance,
if not a public menace, he justly typifies the kind of person in
whom romance runs mad, and is thus of the same class as the small boy
who is incited to acts of petty larceny by the perusal of detective
stories, or the young lady behind the ribbon-counter who is under
the impression that she is the long-lost daughter of a mysterious peer.

It is symptomatic of such craziness that it craves companionship. It
is indeed a species of vanity which must have an audience, however
small or however unsuited to its purposes. Again, the element of
conspiracy is as the apple of its eye, and it must confide its ideas
and aspirations to one sympathetic ear at least. In Sancho Panza, Don
Quixote finds a strange confidant. The luckless peasant is completely
unable to comprehend his master's point of view, but is carried away
by his rodomontades and the glib and gorgeous promises of preferment
and prosperity which the crack-brained knight holds out to him. To
his participation in the wild scheme of the visionary Don, Sancho's
shrewd spouse violently objects, but when dreamer and dunce get
together common sense may hold its tongue and content itself with the
knowledge that it is not until windmills have been tilted at and sound
trouncings have been received that its advice will be listened to.

But though he begins his travels as a dunce, Sancho by no means remains
one. He profits from his experiences, and almost every page shows him
increasing in judgment and in that humour which is the salt of good
judgment. As his master grows madder, Sancho grows wiser, until at
last he becomes capable of direction and guidance toward the rueful
knight. As we proceed we begin to suspect that the peasant-squire
exists as a kind of chorus to illustrate the excesses of his master
and criticize his absurdities. But apart altogether from Don Quixote,
Sancho Panza is a striking and arresting figure in modern fiction,
possessing a philosophy of his own, rich in worldly wisdom and
abounding with practical ability. On the humorous side he is equal to
Falstaff, only whereas Falstaff's humour is typically English that
of Sancho Panza is universal. He is a world-clown, with the outlook
of a philosopher and the unconscious humour of a Handy Andy.

The Adventure at the Inn

The true measure of the character of Don Quixote is perhaps met with
in that chapter which recounts what occurred to him in the inn which he
took for a castle. The place seems to have been a very ordinary Spanish
posada. The host and hostess were kindly folk whom the knight at once
exalted to the rank of a castellan and châtelaine, and in the dowdy
maidservant, who has been immortalized under the name of Maritornes,
he saw a great lady who dwelt in their company. After the terrible
trouncing he had received from the Yanguesian carriers the wretched
knight was glad to rest his battered limbs in a miserable garret
of the place, while Sancho explained to the inn-folk the nature of a
knight-errant and the vicissitudes of errantry, which one day compelled
its adherents to undergo such hardship as the Don now suffered from,
and the next exalted them to the heights of sovereignty over many
empires. These explanations were seconded by the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance himself, who, sitting up in bed, entertained the hostess
and maidservant to a speech so grandiloquent that, lost in wonder at
his eloquence, "they admired him as a man of another world." But Don
Quixote, anxious to recover from his injuries, begged his squire to
procure from "the governor of the castle" the ingredients of a magical
balm of which he had read in some book of chivalry. These he obtained,
and Don Quixote busied himself by concocting the enchanted liquor
over the fire, saying over it many credos and paternosters. Then
he drank deeply of the awful compound, with distressing effect, and
Sancho, following his example, underwent a similar but more violent
experience, and was assured by his master that the balsam disagreed
with him because he had not received the order of knighthood!

Saddling his horse, the knight was about to proceed on his journey,
but before he set out he assured "the lord governor of the castle"
how deeply grateful he was for the honours he had received while
under his roof. The innkeeper suggested that the time for paying his
reckoning had come, but Don Quixote retorted that it was impossible
for him to do so, as no knight-errant of whom he had ever read was
wont to pay for board and lodging. The innkeeper protested loudly,
whereupon, clapping spurs to Rozinante, the knight rode out at the
gate. The innkeeper then attempted to extort his dues from Sancho
Panza, but without avail, as the squire quoted the same authorities
as his master, whereupon some of those who sojourned at the inn seized
him and tossed him in a blanket. Don Quixote, hearing his cries, rode
back, but although he stormed loudly the travellers still continued
to toss Sancho in the blanket, until at length, tired of the exercise,
they let him go.

Don Quixote's Love-Madness

In the space at our disposal it would be impossible to follow Don
Quixote step by step through the land of false romance which he had
created for himself. We will recall how Amadis on the Firm Island
bemoaned his separation from his lady-love, and how, when he came
to a locality known as the Black Mountain, Don Quixote resolved to
follow the example of the great hero of chivalry. Before he left his
native village he had placed his affections upon a country wench,
to whom he gave the romantic name of Dulcinea del Toboso, and now
that he had come to the Black Mountain he resolved to spend his time
in meditation upon the virtues and beauties of this super-excellent
damsel. After lecturing Sancho Panza upon the duty of a knight-errant
in meditation upon his lady, he became irritated with the squire
because he could not understand the reason for his amorous fury.

"Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "what is it that you mean to do in this
fag-end of the world?"

"Have I not already told thee," answered Don Quixote, "that I intend
to copy Amadis in his madness, despair and fury? Nay, at the same
time I will imitate the valiant Orlando Furioso's extravagance when
he ran mad, at which time in his frantic despair he tore up trees
by the roots, troubled the waters of the clear fountains, slew the
shepherds, destroyed their flocks, and committed a hundred thousand
other extravagances worthy to be recorded in the eternal register
of fame."

"Sir," quoth Sancho, "I dare say the knight who did these penances
had some reason to be mad. But what lady has sent you a-packing,
or even so much as slighted you?"

"That is the point," cried Don Quixote, "for in this consists the
singular perfection of my undertaking. It is neither strange nor
meritorious for a knight to run mad upon any just occasion. No, the
rarity is to run mad without a cause, without the least constraint
or necessity, for thus my mistress must needs have a vast idea of
my love. Waste no more time, therefore, in trying to divert me from
so rare, so happy, and so singular an imitation. I am mad and will
be mad until you return with an answer to the letter which you must
carry from me to the Lady Dulcinea. If it be favourable, my penance
shall end, but if not, then shall I be emphatically mad."

"Body o' me!" quoth Sancho, "why run you on at such a rate, Sir
Knight? All these tales of yours of the winning of kingdoms and
bestowing of islands rather appear to me as so much braggartry,
and now this latest mood of yours----"

"Now as I love bright arms," cried the Don, "I swear that thou art an
addle-pated ass. Know you not that all the actions and adventures of
a knight-errant seem to be mere chimæras and follies? Not that they
are so, but merely have that appearance through the malice and envy
of powerful enchanters."

As they talked they came near to a high rock, round which the wild
trees, plants, and flowers grew in profusion, and here the Knight of
the Woeful Figure resolved to perform his amorous penance. Throwing
himself on the ground, he broke into a loud frenzy of grief. "Go not
yet," he cried to Sancho, "for I desire that thou shalt be a witness
of what I will do for my lady's sake, that thou mayst give her an
account of it."

"Bless us," cried Sancho, "what can I see more that I have not seen
already?"

"Nothing as yet," replied Don Quixote. "Thou must see me throw away
mine armour, tear my clothes, knock my head against the rocks, and
do a thousand other things of that kind that will fill thee with
astonishment."

"Beware, sir," cried the squire. "If you needs must knock your noddle,
do so gently, I pray you."

The Army of Sheep

But surely the most mirth-provoking of all the adventures of Don
Quixote is that in which he takes a flock of sheep for an army. He
and Sancho were riding at bridle-pace over a wide plain, when they
perceived a thick cloud of dust in the distance.

"The day is come," cried the knight, "the happy day that fortune
has reserved for me, and in which the strength of my arm shall be
signalized by such exploits as shall be transmitted even to the
latest posterity. Seest thou yonder cloud of dust? Know then that it
is raised by a prodigious army marching this way and composed of an
infinite number of nations."

The wretched Don's brain was of course full to overflowing of the
accounts of those stupendous battles of myriads of paynims which,
as we have seen, are so frequently encountered in the old romances,
and he was delighted when Sancho pointed out that two separate hosts
seemed to be approaching from different points of the compass.

"Ha, so!" cried Don Quixote, flourishing his lance, "then shall
we assist the weaker side. Know, Sancho, that the host which now
confronts us is commanded by the great Alifanfaron, Emperor of the
Island of Taprobana. The other that advances behind us is his sworn
enemy, Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, King of the Garamantians."

"Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "what is the cause of this quarrel between
two such great men?"

"It is a simple matter," answered Don Quixote. "The pagan Alifanfaron
dares to make his addresses to the daughter of Pentapolin, who has
told him that he will have naught of him unless he abjure his false
beliefs."

"If a battle be at hand," said Sancho nervously, "where shall I place
my ass, for I fear he will not prove of much avail in the charge."

"True," answered Don Quixote. "We will soon provide a destrier for
thee when the knights begin to fall from their saddles. But let
us scan their ranks. He who wears the gilded arms and bears on
his shield a crowned lion couchant at the feet of a lady is the
valiant Lord Luarcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge. Yonder is the
formidable Micocolembo, the great Duke of Quiracia, wearing armour
powdered with flowers of gold. The gigantic form upon his right is
the dauntless Brandabarbaran, sovereign of the Three Arabias, whose
armour is made of serpents' skins, and who carries for a shield the
gate of the temple which Samson pulled down at his death. But our
allies also advance. Yonder marches Timonel of Carcaxona, Prince
of New Biscay, who bears on his shield a cat or in a field gules,
with the motto 'Miau.' Beside him rides Espartafilardo of the Wood,
whose blue shield is powdered with asparagus plants. But the pagans
press on. To the right cluster those who drink the pleasant stream
of the Xanthus, there the rude mountaineers of Massilia, behind them
those who gather gold from the sands of Arabia Felix, the treacherous
Numidians, the bowmen of Persia, the Medes and Parthians who fight
flying, the houseless Arabians, and the sooty Ethiopians."

"Upon my soul," cried Sancho, "surely thy magicians are at work again,
for not a single knight, giant or man can I see of all those you talk
of now."

"Blockhead!" cried Don Quixote. "Hark to the neighing of countless
horses, the fanfare of the trumpets, and the thunder of many drums."

"Surely this is sorcery," replied the puzzled Sancho, "for I hear
nothing but the bleating of sheep."

"Retreat, if thou fearest the engagement," replied the Don, with a
haughty sneer, "for I with my single arm am sufficient to give the
victory to that side which I shall favour with my assistance," and
with a loud and warlike cry he couched his lance, clapped spurs to
the lean side of Rozinante, and charged like a thunderbolt into the
plain, crying: "Courage, brave knights! Woe upon that great infidel
Alifanfaron of Taprobana."

In another moment he was among the flock of sheep, charging through and
through it, and piercing an animal at each thrust of his lance. The
shepherds, in great dismay, unloosed their slings and began to ply
him with stones as big as their fists. But, disdainful of this petty
artillery, he cried upon Alifanfaron, whom in imagination he was
about to engage, when a stone as big as a good-sized pippin struck
him heavily upon the short ribs. Thinking himself desperately wounded,
he pulled out the earthen flask which contained his magic balsam; but
just as he was in the act of raising this to his lips, a stone from the
sling of a shepherd struck it so forcibly as to shiver it to atoms,
and passing through it broke three of his teeth and tumbled him from
the saddle. The shepherds, fearing that they had killed him, picked
up the dead sheep and made off, leaving him more dead than alive.

Mambrino's Helmet

No less notable is Cervantes' account of the adventure in which Don
Quixote succeeded in obtaining the helmet of Mambrino. At a distance
he espied a horseman who wore upon his head something that glittered
like gold. Turning to Sancho, he said:

"Behold, yonder comes he who wears upon his head the helmet of
Mambrino, which I have sworn to make mine own."

"Now the truth of the story," says Cervantes, "was this: there were
in that part of the country two villages, one of which was so little
that it had not so much as a shop in it, nor any barber; so that the
barber of the greater village served also the smaller. And thus a
person happening to have occasion to be let blood, and another to
be shaved, the barber was going thither with his brass basin, which
he had clapped upon his head to keep his hat, that chanced to be a
new one, from being spoiled by the rain; and as the basin was new
scoured, it made a glittering show a great way off. As Sancho had
well observed, he rode upon a grey ass, which Don Quixote as easily
took for a dapple-grey steed as he took the barber for a knight,
and his brass basin for a golden helmet; his distracted brain easily
applying every object to his romantic ideas. Therefore, when he saw
the poor imaginary knight draw near, he fixed his lance, or javelin,
to his thigh, and without staying to hold a parley with his thoughtless
adversary, flew at him as fiercely as Rozinante would gallop, resolved
to pierce him through and through; crying out in the midst of his
career: 'Caitiff! wretch! defend thyself, or immediately surrender
that which is so justly my due.'"

The barber, seeing this awful apparition come thundering down upon him,
and in terror lest he should be run through by Don Quixote's lance,
threw himself off his ass on to the ground and, hastily rising, ran off
at the top of his speed, leaving both his ass and his basin behind him.

"Of a truth," said Don Quixote, "the miscreant who has left this helmet
has shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, finding himself hotly
pursued by the hunters, to save his life cuts off with his teeth that
for which his natural instinct tells him he was followed."

"Upon my word," cried Sancho, "it is a right good basin, and worth
at least a piece of eight."

Don Quixote at once placed it on his head, but could find no visor,
and when he perceived that it had none, "Doubtless," said he, "the
pagan for whom this famous helmet was first made had a head of a
prodigious size, but unfortunately part of it is wanting."

At this Sancho laughed outright.

"I fancy," continued Don Quixote, "that this enchanted helmet has
fallen by some strange accident into the hands of some one who for
the lucre of a little money, and finding it to be of pure gold,
melted one half of it and of the other made this headpiece, which as
thou sayest has some resemblance to a barber's basin."

The Adventure of the Windmills

The most celebrated, if not the most amusing of Don Quixote's
adventures is certainly that of the windmills. Indeed "tilting at
windmills" has passed into a proverb. The dismal Don and his squire
had entered a certain plain where stood thirty or forty windmills,
and as soon as the knight espied them he cried: "Fortune directs
our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished. See, Sancho,
there are at least thirty outrageous giants whom I intend to encounter,
and with whose spoils we shall enrich ourselves."

"What giants?" quoth Sancho Panza.

"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long,
extended arms."

"By your leave, sir," said the squire, "those things yonder are no
giants, but windmills."

"Alas, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with
adventures. I tell thee they are giants, and therefore if thou art
afraid, turn aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in
an unequal combat against them all." Without another word he clapped
spurs to his horse, crying out: "Stand your ground, ignoble creatures,
and fly not basely from a single knight who dares encounter you
all!" At that moment the wind rose and the mill-sails began to move,
at which the Don cried aloud: "Base miscreants! though you move more
arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance." Then,
devoutly recommending himself to his lady, he bore down upon the first
windmill, and running his lance into the sail, transfixed it. The sail,
however, continued to rise, drawing up both knight and horse along
with it, until at last the lance broke into shivers and Rozinante
and his master fell a good distance to the ground.

Sancho Panza at once ran up to the dismounted knight, who seemed to
have fared badly. "Alas, your worship," he cried, "did not I tell you
they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise unless he
had windmills in his head."

"Peace!" replied Don Quixote, who had been badly shaken by the fall. "I
am verily persuaded that the cursed necromancer Freston, who continues
to persecute me, has transformed these giants into windmills. But,
mark you, in the end all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall
prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword."

The Story of the Captive

One of the most remarkable of the tales which are interspersed
throughout the history of Don Quixote is that of the captive which the
hero encounters at a certain inn, and which, if it is not actually
based upon the facts of Cervantes' own personal captivity among the
Moorish pirates, certainly draws much of its substance and colour
therefrom. On 26th September, 1575, the Spanish vessel Sol, on which
Cervantes served as a private soldier, was separated from the rest
of the Spanish squadron in the neighbourhood of Marseilles, and,
falling in with a flotilla of Moorish pirates, was captured after a
desperate resistance. Cervantes himself was sold as a slave to one
Dali Mami, a Greek renegade, who found upon his prisoner certain
highly eulogistic letters from Don John of Austria and the Duke of
Sessa. These flattering credentials led his new master to suppose that
Cervantes was a man of consequence, and that he would presumably be
able to draw a large ransom for him. But although the great are often
quite ready to provide genius with grandiloquent testimonials which
cost them only the expense of a little ink and paper, they are by no
means prone to back their assertions of ability by tabling large sums
of money, and Cervantes continued to languish in captivity. In 1576
he attempted to escape with other prisoners, but their Moorish guide
played them false, and, threatened by hunger, the party was forced
to return to Algiers. In the following year Cervantes' brother was
ransomed, and he undertook to send a vessel to carry off Miguel and his
friends. Meanwhile the author of Don Quixote enlisted the sympathies of
a Spanish renegade, a Navarrese gardener named Juan. Between them they
dug a cave in a garden near the sea, and secreted in it, one by one,
fourteen Christian slaves, who were secretly fed during several months
by the help of another renegade known as El Dorador. The vessel sent
by Rodrigo de Cervantes stood in to the shore, and was on the point of
embarking those hidden in the cave when a Moorish fishing-boat passed
by, and so alarmed the rescuers that they put to sea again. Meanwhile
the treacherous El Dorador had revealed the plan to Hassan Pasha,
the Dey of Algiers, and when several of the crew of rescuers landed
on a second occasion to convey the fugitives on board, the Dey's
troops surrounded the garden, and the entire band of Christians was
captured. Cervantes, with that true nobility which characterized
him throughout life, took the entire blame of the conspiracy upon
himself. Dragged bound before Hassan, he adhered to his statement,
and although the unfortunate gardener was hanged, Hassan decided to
spare Cervantes' life, and for some reason known to himself purchased
the poet from Dali Mami for five hundred crowns. Perhaps the tyrant
expected an immense ransom from a man whose nobility of bearing must
have impressed him. But be that as it may, Cervantes at once began to
set on foot a third scheme of escape. He sent a letter to the Spanish
Governor of Oran, asking for assistance, but this was intercepted,
and the poet was sentenced to two thousand blows, which, however,
were never inflicted. Cervantes now conceived the idea of inducing the
Christian population of Algiers to rise and capture the city. In this
project he was assisted by some Valencian traders, but the scheme was
revealed to Hassan by a Dominican monk, and the Valencians, hearing
of the priest's treachery, and fearing lest they might be implicated,
begged Cervantes to make his escape on a ship which was about to start
for Spain. But Cervantes refused to desert his friends, and when he
was once more dragged before Hassan with a hangman's rope round his
neck, and threatened with instant death unless he revealed the names
of his accomplices, he obstinately refused to betray them.

Meanwhile his family were doing their utmost to procure his release,
and in order that they might collect his ransom, his mother, the better
to inspire pity, actually passed herself off as a widow, though her
husband, a medical practitioner of great age, was still alive. By
tremendous exertions they succeeded in collecting two hundred and
fifty ducats, which they paid to a certain monk who went regularly to
Algiers, but this Hassan refused to accept, asking for one prisoner
of distinction, called Palafox, the sum of one thousand ducats. The
monk seems to have acted as an official ransomer to the Spaniards,
and when Hassan found that he would pay no more than five hundred
ducats for Palafox, he offered to ransom Cervantes for that sum by
way of making a bargain. So after five years of slavery the author
of Don Quixote was set free, and returned to his native soil. But
the Dominican monk who had revealed to Hassan his attempted escape,
and who was probably afraid that Cervantes would charge him with
this treachery, no sooner heard that he had landed in Spain than
he spread false reports regarding his conduct. These, however,
Cervantes was easily able to rebut, and his character as a heroic
leader among the captives was amply vindicated. The captive's story,
for which Cervantes had had the mournful privilege of collecting so
much 'local colour,' is recounted to Don Quixote by an escaped slave,
who, with his Moorish lady-love, has come to the inn where the woeful
knight is sojourning. I shall adhere to Cervantes' manner of recounting
it in the first person, but as it occupies a considerable portion of
the first part of his famous history, considerations of space will
necessitate its condensation.

"My family had its origin in the mountains of Leon, and although my
father had considerable substance, he had by no means been prudent in
his expenditure, and at an early age my brothers and myself were faced
with the necessity for carving out our own fortunes. One of my brothers
resolved to go to the Indies, the youngest embraced Holy Orders, and
I concluded that for my part I would be a soldier. With a thousand
ducats in my pocket I travelled to Alicant, whence I took ship to
Genoa. From that city I went to Milan, where I joined the forces of
the great Duke of Alva and saw service in Flanders. Some time after
my arrival in that country there came news of the league concluded by
Pope Pius V in conjunction with Spain against the Turks, who had at
that time taken the island of Cyprus from the Venetians. Hearing that
Don John of Austria had been given the conduct of this expedition,
I returned to Italy, enrolled myself in his service, and was present
at the great battle of Lepanto, on which glorious day the fable that
the Turk was invincible, which had so long deluded Christendom,
was dissipated. But instead of participating in this victory, I
was so unfortunate as to be made a prisoner in the course of the
engagement. Vehali, the bold pirate king of Algiers, having boarded
and taken the galley Capitana of Malta, the vessel of Andrea Doria,
to which I had been commissioned, bore up to assist it. I leaped
on board the enemy's ship, which, however, succeeded in casting off
the grappling-irons thrown upon it, and I found myself surrounded by
enemies who quickly bore me down. I was carried to Constantinople,
and was made a slave in the captured Capitana at Navarino.

"As I did not wish to burden my father with the collection of a ransom,
I refrained from letting him know of my circumstances. My master Vehali
dying, I fell to the share of a Venetian renegade called Azanaga,
who sailed for Algiers, where I was shut up in prison. As it was
thought that I might be ransomed, the Moors placed me in a bagnio,
and I was not forced to labour like those captives who had no hope of
redemption. Upon the courtyard of this place there opened the windows
of the house of a wealthy Moor, and it chanced one day that I was
standing underneath one of these, when there appeared from it a long
cane, to which was attached a piece of linen. This was moved up and
down, as if it was expected that some of us should lay hold upon it,
and one of our number stood immediately beneath it to see if it would
be lowered. But just as he came to it, the cane was drawn up and shaken
to and fro sideways, as if in denial. Another of my comrades advanced,
and had the same success as the former. Seeing this, I resolved to try
my fortune also, and as I came under the cane, it fell at my feet. I
untied the linen, and found wrapped up in it about ten gold coins
called zianins. I took the money, broke the cane, and looking upward,
beheld a white hand close the window in haste. Shortly afterward
there appeared out of the same casement a little cross made of cane,
and by this token we concluded that some Christian woman was a slave
in that house. But the whiteness of the hand and the richness of the
bracelets upon the arm made us think that perhaps we had to deal with
a Christian lady who had turned Mohammedan.

"For more than fifteen days we received no other token of the lady's
presence, although we watched carefully for the same, but we learned
that the house belonged to a Moor of high rank, called Agimorato. At
the end of this time the cane appeared once more, and on this occasion
I found that the linen bundle contained no less than forty crowns
of Spanish gold, with a paper written in Arabic, at the top of which
was a great cross. But none of us understood Arabic, and it was with
difficulty that we could find an interpreter. At last I resolved
to trust a renegade of Murcia, who had shown me great proofs of his
kindness. He agreed to translate it, and I found the contents were
as follow:

"'As a child I had a Christian nurse who taught me much of your
religion, and especially of Lela Marien, whom you call the Virgin. When
this good slave died, she appeared to me in a vision and bid me go
to the land of the Christians to see the Virgin, who had a great
kindness for me. I have seen many Christians out of this window,
but none has appeared to me so much of a gentleman as thyself. I am
young and handsome and can carry with me a great deal of money and
other riches. Pray consider how we may escape together, and thou shalt
be my husband in thine own country, if thou art willing. But if not,
it does not matter, for the Virgin will provide me a husband. Trust
no Moor with this letter, for they are all treacherous.'

"The renegade to whom I had given the letter for translation promised
to assist us in every way in his power, should we venture upon making
our escape, and indeed the hearts of all of us rose high, for we argued
that the influence and means of the lady who had befriended me might
greatly help us in our efforts for freedom. I dictated a reply to the
renegade, who translated it into the Arabic tongue, offering the lady
my services and those of my companions, and promising on the word of
a Christian to make her my wife. Soon the cane was let down from the
window once more. I attached the note to it and it was drawn up. That
night we prisoners discussed the best means of effecting our escape,
and at last we agreed to wait for the answer of Zoraida (for such we
discovered was the lady's name), feeling assured that she could best
advise us how to proceed.

For some days the bagnio was full of people, during which time the
cane was invisible, but when we were once more left to ourselves it
was thrust through the window, and on this occasion the bundle which
depended from it contained a letter and a hundred crowns in gold. The
renegade speedily translated the missive, which stated that although
the writer could not contrive the manner of our escape, she could still
furnish us with sufficient money to enable us to buy our ransoms. She
suggested that having done this one of us should proceed to Spain,
purchase a ship there, and return for the others. She concluded by
saying that she was now about to proceed to the country with her
father, and that she would pass all the summer in a place near the
seaside, which she closely described.

"Every one of our company offered to be the man who should go to
Spain and purchase the ship which was to deliver the rest, but the
renegade, who was experienced in such matters, strongly opposed this
proposal, saying that he had seen too many such enterprises wrecked
by placing trust in a single individual. He offered to purchase a ship
in Algiers, and pretend to turn merchant, by which means, he said, he
could contrive to get us out of the bagnio and the country. Meanwhile
I answered Zoraida, assuring her that we would do all she advised,
and in reply to this she gave us, by means of the cane, two thousand
crowns in gold. Of this sum we gave the renegade five hundred crowns to
buy the ship, and through the good offices of a merchant of Valencia,
then in Algiers, I effected my own ransom with another eight hundred
crowns. But on the advice of this trader the money was not paid down
to the Dey at once, lest his suspicions should be aroused, but he
was informed that it would shortly be forthcoming from Spain, and
meanwhile I remained in the Valencian's house upon parole. Before
Zoraida finally departed for her father's summer residence she gave
us another thousand crowns, explaining, by letter, that she kept the
keys of her father's treasury, and on this occasion I made arrangements
for ransoming three of my friends.

The Flight from Algiers

"Soon after this the renegade purchased a vessel capable of carrying
above thirty people, in which he pretended to make several voyages
in company with a Moorish partner whom he took in order to avoid
suspicion. Each time he passed along the coast he cast anchor in
a little bay close to the house where Zoraida lived, so that the
people of the place should get used to his doing so. He even landed
on several occasions and begged fruit from Zoraida's father, which
he always received, for the old Moor was of a liberal spirit. But he
could never succeed in having speech with Zoraida herself. Our plan
was now upon such a footing that he asked me to fix a day upon which
we might make the great effort upon which everything depended. So I
collected twelve Spaniards known to be good oarsmen and whose comings
and goings were not very closely watched. It was arranged among us that
we should steal out of the town upon the evening of the next Friday,
and rendezvous at a certain spot near Agimorato's dwelling. But
it was necessary that Zoraida herself should be apprised of our
intention, and with this object in view I entered her garden one day
upon pretence of gathering a few herbs. Almost at once I encountered
her father, who asked me what I did there. I told him I was a slave
of Arnaut Mami, who I knew was a friend of his, and that I wanted a
few herbs to make up a salad. While we spoke Zoraida came out of the
garden house, and as it was quite the custom for the Moorish women
to be seen before Christian slaves, her father called her to come
to him. She was most richly dressed and wore a profusion of jewels,
and now that I beheld her for the first time I was astounded by her
beauty. Her father told her for what purpose I was there, and she
asked me if I were about to be ransomed. Speaking in lingua franca,
I replied that I had already been ransomed, and that I intended to
embark on the morrow upon a French ship.

"At that juncture the old Moor was called away upon business, and I
at once assured Zoraida that I would come for her on the morrow. She
immediately threw her arms around my neck and began to walk toward
the house, but her father returning at that moment espied us, and
came running to us in some alarm. Immediately Zoraida pretended to
be in a fainting condition, and explained to Agimorato that she had
suddenly felt indisposed. I yielded her up to him and they retired
into the house.

"Next evening we embarked and dropped anchor opposite Zoraida's
dwelling. When darkness had come we walked boldly into the garden,
and finding the gate of the house open entered the courtyard. Zoraida
immediately emerged from the house carrying a small trunk full of
treasure, and told us that her father was asleep, but as misfortune
would have it, some slight noise that we made awakened him and
he came to a window calling out, 'Thieves, thieves! Christians,
Christians!' The renegade at once rushed upstairs and secured him,
and we carried father and daughter on board. We also made prisoners
of the few Moors who remained on the vessel, bent to the oars, and
set out to sea.

"At first we endeavoured to make for Majorca, but a strong wind
arising, we were driven along the coast. We were in great fear that
we might encounter some of the Moorish cruisers which we knew to be in
the vicinity. I made every effort in my power to assure Agimorato that
we would give him his liberty on the very first occasion, and told him
that his daughter had become a Christian and desired to live the rest
of her life in a Christian land. On hearing this the old man behaved
as if suddenly seized with a frenzy, and rising cast himself into
the sea, whence we succeeded with difficulty in rescuing him. Shortly
afterward we drove into a small bay, where we set Agimorato ashore. I
shall never forget his curses and imprecations upon his daughter,
but as we sailed away he called out, begging her to return. However,
she hid her face in her hands and commended him to the Virgin.

"We had proceeded some little distance from the coast when the light of
the moon became obscured. All at once we nearly collided with a large
vessel, which hailed us in French, bidding us to heave to. Perceiving
that it was a French pirate, we made no answer, but pressed onward,
whereupon its crew launched a boat, boarded us and dragged us on board,
stripping Zoraida of all her jewels and throwing us into the hold. As
we neared the Spanish shore next morning they placed us in their
long-boat with two barrels of water and a small quantity of biscuits,
and the captain, touched with some remorse for the lovely Zoraida,
gave her at parting about forty crowns in gold. We rowed on through
the early dawn, and after some hours of plying the oars landed. After
proceeding some miles inland we came upon a shepherd, who on seeing
our Moorish dresses, made off and gave the alarm. Soon we encountered
a company of horsemen, one of whom chanced to be related to one of
our number. They placed us on their horses and we soon reached the
city of Velez Malaga. There we went straight to church to thank God
for His great mercy to us, and there for the first time Zoraida saw
and recognized a picture of the Virgin. With some of the money the
pirate had given Zoraida I bought an ass and resolved to discover
whether or no my father and brothers were still alive. That is,
gentlemen, the sum of our adventures."

The escaped Christian had scarcely finished his narration when a
splendid coach drove up to the door of the inn. From this equipage
there alighted a richly dressed gentleman and lady, who entered the
posada and were met with great courtesy by Don Quixote. The Christian
refugee recognized the gentleman as his brother, now a judge of the
Court of Mexico, who greeted him affectionately and introduced the
lady as his daughter. The man of many adventures with his Moorish bride
resolved to return with the judge to Seville, whence they intended to
advise their father of these strange happenings, that he might come to
see the baptism and marriage of Zoraida, for whose future, and that of
his sorely tried brother, the grandee resolved to make ample provision.

The Growth of Cervantes

It is in such a tale as the above that we observe how Cervantes'
style grows more supple and adaptable as his work proceeds. It is
clear that he has made an effort to shake off the literary trammels
of his time, and that he has succeeded. No longer does he find it
necessary to imitate such writers as Antonio de Guevara, as in the
passage in which Don Quixote describes the Age of Gold. He has shaken
off the rather recondite euphuism of some of the earlier passages,
and has become more human and familiar. His speeches are appropriate
to his characters; his dialogue is full of life and his narrative of
incident. But although in these pages we behold the evolution of a
realist, Cervantes never altogether throws off the cloak of academic
eloquence--only it becomes a carefully restrained eloquence which
has left affectation far behind.

The great and immediate success of Don Quixote was, however,
principally due to its large humour, and to its faithful portraiture of
the Spanish types of Cervantes' day. Into juxtaposition with figures
that were familiar to all he brought the extraordinary character of
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, a burlesque original out of
another age, and yet not lacking in the dignity and greater qualities
of the times whose spirit he strove to imitate. Into the environment of
seventeenth-century Spain stalked the antiquated figure of Don Quixote,
disturbing its ordinary routine and quarrelling with its conventions,
carrying the days of chivalry in his head, and projecting their
phantasms on the landscape by means of the all too powerful light
of his imagination. But if the incongruity of the Don in a modern
setting roused grave and sober Spain to inextinguishable laughter, his
character and that of Sancho Panza were still recognized as triumphs
of creative fiction--the representatives of imagination run mad and
of the grossest common sense.

The perfection and finish of Don Quixote, and the consummate
craftsmanship with which it is conceived, cannot fail to commend
themselves to readers of discretion. It is full of the knowledge of
the man of the world; it breathes leisure and urbanity, its spirit is
that which stamps the work of the great master. Here there are no loose
ends, no clumsy constructions, no weaknesses of diction. It does not
seem to me that Cervantes wrote with any great facility, and herein
probably lies the measure of his great literary excellence. On the
other hand, no drudgery is apparent in his composition. He strikes
the happy medium between brilliant facility and that meticulous and
often nervously apprehensive mode which so frequently disgraces the
work of modern stylists. He is precise and wonderfully sure-footed,
and we cannot imagine him grasping in alarm at every projection
in the course of his ascent. Whatever the secret of his style, it
succeeded in producing a wonderfully equable yet varied narrative,
just and appropriate in expression. His entire canvas is filled in
and completed with a masterly eye to the smallest detail.

The Second Part of "Don Quixote"

We can see by the time which he permitted to elapse between the first
and second parts of his great romance how careful Cervantes was not
to hazard his well-won reputation upon an unfortunate sequel, and the
fictioneer of our own time, harassed by a public greedy for sensation
and flushed by momentary success, might well turn to him for an example
in this respect. It is often alleged that the circumstances of modern
literature do not permit of that leisure which is necessary to the
excogitation of a carefully developed technique or a sound style. This,
alas! is only too true. The successful author of to-day can scarcely
permit ten months, much less ten years, to elapse between one effort
and another, and to this feverish condition of things we undoubtedly
owe those disappointing sequels to great novels with which all of
us must be only too familiar. Ours is emphatically not an age of
connoisseurs. We eat, drink, and read pretty much what is given us,
and if we grumble a little at the quality thereof, we feel that no
complaints will alter the conditions which produce the things against
which we inveigh. The Spain of Cervantes' day offered a much more
critical environment. Bad or hastily conceived work it would not
tolerate. But there were elements within it which frequently did
much to hasten the publication of a sequel, and the chief of these
was undoubtedly literary piracy. Cervantes appears to have been
spurred on in the publication of the second part of Don Quixote by
the appearance in 1614 of a book by Alonso Fernández de Avellaneda,
a spurious sequel to the first portion of his great work, the preface
of which is filled with personalities of the most insolent kind. That
he resented the piracy is shown by the circumstance that he put all
his other work aside and brought Don Quixote to a hurried conclusion.

In the last chapters of Don Quixote he was forced to write hastily
because his rival had stolen his plan, and it was necessary for him
to recast it as well as to bring out his novel with all speed. But,
these blemishes notwithstanding, much of the sequel is truly epical
in its grandeur. Don Quixote, if less amusing, is greatly more
thought-provoking, and Sancho Panza becomes even richer in common sense
and clear-sightedness. The portraiture of the remaining characters,
too, is sharper in outline than in the first part. The sequel, indeed,
is a great mirror in which the Spanish society of Cervantes' day is
reflected with all the thaumaturgy of genius. The immense success
which followed it must have afforded the greatest gratification to the
dying novelist, and must in great measure have consoled him for the
disappointments of a career spent in the shallows of exile and poverty.

Lazarillo de Tormes

The greatest humorous romance which Spain had produced prior to Don
Quixote was the Lazarillo de Tormes of Diego Hurtado de Mendoza,
a many-sided man and once Spanish Ambassador to England. He was of
noble extraction on both sides, and was born in Granada in 1503. As
a younger son he was destined for the Church, and studied at the
university of Salamanca, where, while still a student, he wrote
the novel which rendered him famous. Its graphic descriptions, its
penetration into character, and its vivacity and humour instantly
gained for it a high place in contemporary Spanish literature. But
Mendoza soon exchanged the clerical for the political sphere of
activity, and Charles V created him Captain-General of Siena, a small
Italian republic which had been brought beneath Spanish rule. Haughty
and unfeeling, Mendoza exercised a most tyrannical sway over the
wretched people committed to his care. They complained bitterly to
the Emperor regarding his conduct, and when this remained without
effect, his life was attempted by assassination. On one occasion,
indeed, his horse was killed under him by a musket-shot aimed at
himself. During his absence Siena was captured by a French army,
and as the weakness of the city was attributed to his withdrawal of
certain troops he was recalled to Spain in 1554.

But while thus employed in Italy as a statesman and a soldier Mendoza
had not been idle in a literary sense, for he had written his political
commentaries, a paraphrase of Aristotle, a treatise on mechanics,
and other notable works, none of which, however, have achieved for
him a tithe of the popularity of his first literary effort.

Lazaro, or, to give him his diminutive name, Lazarillo, was the son
of a miller who plied his trade by the banks of the river Tormes,
from which he took his name. When he was only ten years old his
father was killed in a campaign against the Moors, and as his mother
was unable to support him she gave him into the charge of a blind
man who wandered about the country as a beggar. While at the bridge
of Salamanca the boy noticed an animal carved in stone in the form
of a bull, and was told by his master that if he placed his ear to
the effigy he would hear it roar. He did so, when the old man gave
his head such a violent thump against it as almost to bereave him of
sense, and, laughing brutally, told him that a blind man's boy must
needs have his wits about him. "I have no silver or gold to give you,"
said he, "but what is far better, I can impart to you the result of
my experiences, which will always enable you to live."

The little Lazarillo had much difficulty in getting enough food to
keep body and soul together. The old beggar kept his bread and meat
in a linen knapsack, the neck of which was tightly secured. But the
boy made a small rent in one of the seams of the bag, and thus helped
himself to the choicest pieces of meat, bacon, and sausage. It was
his task also to receive the alms which charitable people bestowed
on the blind man, and part of this he secreted in his mouth, until,
by dint of practice, he was able to hide a goodly treasure of copper
money in that receptacle. It irked him on a hot day to watch the
beggar drinking his wine while he himself went thirsty. The wine was
kept in a large jar, and from time to time he managed to get a sip of
the cooling liquor. But his master soon discovered the practice and
kept the jar between his knees, with his hand on its mouth. Lazarillo
therefore bored a small hole in the bottom of the jar, which he
closed with wax. At dinner-time, when the blind beggar sat over the
fire, the wax melted, and Lazarillo, putting his mouth to the hole,
absorbed the wine. His master was enraged and surprised when he found
that the liquor had vanished, and attributed its disappearance to
magical means. But the next time his charge attempted the feat the
crafty old mendicant seized the jar with both hands and dealt him
such a blow on the face with it as to break the vessel and wound
the boy severely. From that day Lazarillo bore a grudge against the
sightless old tyrant, and took a sly revenge by guiding him over the
worst roads he could find and through the deepest mud.

Resolving to quit a service the perquisites of which were all kicks
and no halfpence, Lazarillo led his master to the Arcade at Escalona,
beside which a brook ran rather swiftly. In order to cross this it was
necessary either to jump or to wade almost up to the neck in water, and
when this was explained to him the old beggar chose the former method
of negotiating it. The crafty Lazarillo told him that the narrowest
place was opposite a great stone pillar, and the wretched mendicant,
taking a step or two backward to give him impetus, leapt with such
force that he crashed into the pillar, at the bottom of which he
immediately fell unconscious. With a shout of triumph Lazarillo ran
off, and from that day never set eyes upon the blind man again.

The next master whose service he entered was a priest, and if his
experiences with the beggar had been unhappy, they were as nothing
to what he now had to bear, for the holy man was a miser of the most
pitiful description, and starved him in a shameful manner. He kept his
bread in a large wooden chest, to which Lazarillo got a travelling
tinker to fit a key during the priest's absence, and was thus able
to regale himself daily, until his miserly master discovered the
shortage. This he attributed to rats, and as there were several holes
in the box he carefully mended it with small pieces of wood; but still
the bread disappeared, and as one of the neighbours had seen a snake
in the priest's domicile the padre concluded that this reptile was
the cause of the depredations. To avoid discovery, Lazarillo slept
with the key of the chest in his mouth, but one night his breathing
caused a whistling sound upon the orifice of the implement, and the
old priest, taking this for the hissing of the snake, delivered such a
shrewd blow in the direction of the noise as to render the unfortunate
Lazarillo an invalid for some considerable time. When he had recovered,
the old priest took him by the hand and, leading him into the street,
said to him: "Lazarillo my son, thou hast great natural gifts; thou
art indeed far too clever for an old man like me, and I assure thee
that I do not wish to see thee more. Farewell."

Lazarillo, however, was not long in attaching himself to another
master, who appeared to be a gentleman of birth and breeding. But
now he found that he was in worse straits than ever, as though his
master seemed a cavalier of family, he had not a penny in the world,
and was entirely dependent for his daily bread upon what the boy
could beg from charitably disposed persons. One day the landlord
called for the rent, and the gentleman, assuring him that he would
fetch it from his banker's, sallied forth and never returned, so that
once more the wretched urchin was without a master.

He next succeeded in obtaining the patronage of a pardoner who
travelled from place to place selling indulgences and relics. On one
occasion they stayed at an inn, where his master struck up a friendship
with an alguazil, or constable. One night the pair sat late carousing,
when a quarrel arose between them, and next day, as the pardoner was
preaching in the church preparatory to selling his wares, the alguazil
entered and denounced him as an impostor. The pardoner, with a great
show of piety, prayed loudly that the heavenly powers would vindicate
his character and would punish the alguazil, who immediately fell to
the ground in the most dreadful convulsions. Some of the congregation
prayed the pardoner that he would attempt some mitigation of the wrath
of heaven upon his traducer, and the holy man stepped from the pulpit
and laid a bull which he pretended he had received from the Pope upon
the sufferer's forehead. The man instantly rose as if cured, and the
people, convinced that a miracle had occurred, at once bought up the
pardoner's entire stock. But the acute Lazarillo soon discovered that
the pair had been in league with one another.

The last master to whose service Lazarillo attached himself was the
Arch-priest of Salvador, in whose service he flourished exceedingly,
and one of whose servants he married. But scandal crept into his
household, and with the death of his wife he found himself as poor
as ever.

Here the tale ends. It is impossible in such a brief sketch as this
to do justice to the great degree of insight into the workings of the
human heart which characterizes the authorship of this little novel,
the first of its kind. Lazarillo de Tormes was the forerunner and
exemplar of the entire school of the Picaresque novel, which at a
later date became almost typical of Spanish fiction, and which gave
rise to such masterpieces as Guzman de Alfarache, the Gil Blas of
Le Sage, and the novels of Scarron, and the spirit of which to some
extent was mirrored in our own Laurence Sterne; nor is its influence
by any means defunct, as can readily be seen by reference to certain
of the works of Mr Maurice Hewlett and Mr Jeffery Farnol.

Guzman de Alfarache

Mateo Aleman, the author of the great Picaresque romance of Guzman
de Alfarache, was a native of Seville. Throwing up a Government
appointment in early life, he crossed the sea to Mexico, where in 1609
he published a work on Spanish orthography and several treatises
in Latin. But the effort which has gained for him the title of
novelist was his Vita del Picaro Guzman de Alfarache, a work which
has been translated into every European language from the date of
its first appearance in 1599. Although written in the most correct
and approved literary style, it is yet easy and familiar in manner,
and is unrivalled in the picture it presents not only of the lowest
grades of Castilian society, but of the more exclusive orders of life
at the period in which he wrote.

"My ancestors," he says, "were originally from the Levant, but settled
in Genoa and employed themselves in the mercantile life of that city
in such a manner that they were accused of usury."

Thus the stock from which the lively adventurer came was of such
a character as to bring him at an early age into contact with the
realities of roguery. But if his relations were by no means particular
in trade, they concealed their ignominious conduct under the cloak of
hypocrisy and social correctness. They never failed to be present at
Mass, and the finger of reproach could not be pointed against their
family life. Before Guzman was born his father learned that one of
his correspondents at Seville had become bankrupt, and setting out
for Spain in order to investigate his affairs on the spot, he was
captured by an Algerine pirate, adopted the religion of Mohammed,
and married a Moorish lady. His agent at Seville, having heard of
what had happened to his principal creditor, adjusted his affairs
without him, and was soon in a better condition than ever. But the
elder de Alfarache succeeded in making his escape, and, coming to
Seville, demanded a reckoning from his rascally business confrère,
from whom he succeeded in extorting a considerable sum. He set himself
up in business at Seville, and bought an estate, which he named St
Juan de Alfarache. Here he lived right royally, and, having married
the wealthy widow of an old knight, he found himself in a fortunate
position. Soon after this his son Guzman was born. But de Alfarache
was unfortunately prone to the distractions of company, splendour,
and show, and having dissipated most of his means, ere long became
himself bankrupt, and shortly afterward paid the debt of nature.

His widow and the little Guzman were only indifferently provided for,
and when the boy had entered his fourteenth year he resolved to seek
his fortune, and set out for Genoa, in the hope that his father's
relations would extend their assistance to him. Soon he arrived at a
miserable tavern, where he asked for something to eat, and was given
an omelet, which, he says, might more properly have been called an "egg
poultice," but which he attacked "as hogs do acorns." Leaving the inn,
he soon felt very ill, and in a condition bordering upon collapse he
encountered a muleteer, to whom he described the unsavoury meal he
had just eaten, and who laughed heartily at his story. The kindly
fellow told him to jump on one of his mules, and soon they were
trotting nimbly eastward. Shortly after this they met two friars,
and arrived at an inn, where they were given another indifferent
meal, which the host extolled so much that the simple boy was fain
to swallow the mess without making any great ado. But to his horror
he later discovered that it had been made from the flesh of a young
mule. On being challenged with this the innkeeper drew a long sword,
whereupon the muleteer seized a pitchfork, and murder would have been
done had not the town police separated the parties. The dishonest
landlord was taken to prison, but although he confessed to passing
off the mule for veal he would not admit that he had stolen Guzman's
cloak, which had gone amissing, and the boy had perforce to leave
the place minus this article of apparel.

Riding on their way, Guzman and the muleteer were soon overtaken
on the road by two persons on mules, who examined them with the
greatest attention, and then quite suddenly threw themselves upon the
unfortunate lad, asserting that he had stolen some jewels of value. The
muleteer interfered, but only to receive a rough handling, and the
strangers tied the comrades to their mules with cords. At this juncture
the party was joined once more by the friars, who amused themselves by
telling tales, the morals of which hinged upon the mutability of human
affairs; but these are much too long and too slightly connected with
the thread of our story to be repeated here. The party then arrived at
the gates of Cazalla, and the officers of the law, finding that they
had made a mistake in arresting Guzman, gave him his liberty. He put up
at the best inn that the place afforded, and on the following morning
took the direct road to Madrid on foot. At an inn on the outskirts of
the capital he met with a beneficent priest, who shared his meal with
him, but in the morning the landlord attempted to overcharge him, and
was about to take his coat in payment of his bill when the muleteer,
who had rejoined him, interfered, and gave it as his opinion that
Guzman had run away from home. The villainous landlord, seeing in
this some hope of enriching himself, offered to take the lad into his
service as a kind of stable-boy, his duty being to hand out straw and
oats to the muleteers who put up at the place. Here the young Guzman
was initiated into habits of dishonesty and sharp practice, for when
a cavalier or person of consequence visited the inn he usually doled
out a mere handful of provender to his horses or mules, while charging
him the usual sum for it. The place was, indeed, a regular sink of
iniquity, and for Guzman life became so miserable that, relying upon
the little money he had saved, and selling his coat and waistcoat, he
absconded, and joined a passing company of beggars. These people lived
right royally on what they begged and what they poached. They were
inveterate gamblers, and in the evening Guzman found every opportunity
of picking up tricks with playing-cards. Soon after, however, he took
employment as scullion to a cook in the service of a nobleman.

Guzman as Scullion

In this situation Guzman passed a jovial time, for there was no lack
of good cheer in the knight's establishment. Albeit the lad did his
work to admiration. But the vice of gambling seized upon him, and
every day he joined the lackeys and pages at cards, often sitting up
all night to indulge in this pastime. In this way he soon got rid
of the money he received in gratuities, and being short of funds
wherewith to gratify his passion for gaming, began to pilfer such
small articles as he could find about the house, excusing himself by
saying that he only did as others did. One day his master had given a
great carouse to some friends, and Guzman entered the room where they
had been drinking to find them fast asleep. On the table he observed
a large silver goblet, and this he purloined. The cook's wife soon
missed the article, and inquiries with regard to it were set afoot,
whereupon the cunning youngster, taking the cup to a jeweller, had
it cleaned in such a manner that it resembled a new one. Carrying
it back to the woman, who was in great fear that her master would
hear of the loss, he told her that he had found a similar goblet
at a jeweller's, which he could procure for fifty-six reales, and,
anxious to avert trouble, she at once gave him the sum to purchase
it. The money thus dishonestly won was instantly thrown in gaming,
and Guzman was no better off than before.

About this time the cook was requested to prepare a splendid dinner
for a foreign nobleman who had newly arrived at Madrid. A large sack
containing game was entrusted to the lad, and this he carried home,
but as it was late he took it up to his own garret. In the middle
of the night he was wakened by cats, who fought over one of the
hares which he had brought home. Seeing that this was not missed,
and that his brother lackeys stole the provisions right and left,
Guzman presently slipped half a dozen eggs into his pocket. But the
head cook observed him do so, and dealt him such a furious kick that
he fell, and the broken eggs gushed from his pocket, to the amusement
of all present. Guzman, however, managed to embezzle a couple of
partridges and some quails. These he took to sell to another cook,
but his master, suspecting him, followed and discovered what he was
about, and immediately dismissed him after thrashing him soundly.

After this nothing was left for the young adventurer but to return to
his old trade of running errands. He soon heard that certain troops
were about to be embarked for Genoa, and resolved to follow them and
enlist. A certain old apothecary, who had always found him honest in
his dealings, sent him to a foreign merchant with a large quantity of
silver, and this Guzman secreted in a large hole by the riverside. In
the morning he returned to the place, and, digging up the bags of
money, found that they contained two thousand five hundred reales in
silver and thirty pistoles in gold. Slinging the bags on his back,
to resemble a traveller's pack, he set off in the direction of Toledo,
making his way across the fields and carefully avoiding the high road.

Arriving within two leagues of Toledo, he entered a wood, where he
intended to rest the whole of the day, as he did not wish to approach
the city till nightfall. His plan was to betake himself to Genoa
and introduce himself to his relations, and he was thinking of the
best way to lay out his money in order to reach them and make a good
appearance before them, when he heard a noise and, turning hastily,
beheld a young man of about his own age reclining on the ground,
with his head against a tree. Guzman shared his wine with him, and
the youth informed him that he was penniless. Guzman offered to buy
some of the clothes he carried with him in a bundle, and, opening
one of his money-bags, reassured him as to his ability to pay. For
a hundred reales a handsome suit changed hands, and, taking leave of
the stranger, Guzman entered Toledo, where he at once put up at the
best inn. Next day he fitted himself out with such articles of attire
as he required, but his vanity got the better of him, and he ordered
a most magnificent suit, which cost him a long price. On Sunday he
betook himself to the cathedral, where he met a very fine lady,
who asked him to accompany her home to supper. For this occasion
Guzman ordered a magnificent feast, but the pair had hardly sat down
to partake of it when a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the
lady cried out in alarm that her brother had returned and that he had
better conceal himself. The only place in which he could do so with
advantage was inside a great inverted bath, and from this place of
concealment he had the mortification of beholding the gentleman who
entered devour the gorgeous supper which he had provided and drink
every drop of the four bottles of wine he had purchased for his own
use. Soon the gentleman, having eaten and drunk thus sumptuously,
fell sound asleep, and Guzman took the opportunity of stealing from
the house, a sadder but a wiser lad.

Hearing that an alguazil had been inquiring very particularly
regarding him, Guzman hurriedly left Toledo, and, arriving at the
town of Almagro, joined the company of soldiers who were bound
for Genoa. Their captain, taken with his distinguished appearance,
hailed him as a brother in arms, and treated him as an equal. Guzman
had engaged the services of a page at Toledo, and this little rascal
assisted him greatly in his new sphere by spreading the report that
he was a gentleman of consequence. But our hero's purse was now sadly
depleted, although he had still about half of his ill-gotten gains
left. Instead of embarking at once the company remained at Barcelona
for three months, so that his resources soon gave out, and he was
neglected by the officers, and even avoided by the soldiers. His
captain, indeed, condoled with him, and offered him a place in his
household at the servants' table, assuring him that this was all
he could do for him, as he himself was compelled to dine out from
his utter incapacity to receive his friends at home. Guzman assured
him of his gratitude, and hinted that he might in turn be able to
assist him. The soldiers were billeted in the village, and Guzman
commenced a system of imposing a larger number of men upon each
house than was necessary, or at least threatening to do so, so that
the anxious inhabitants were only too glad to buy him off. In this
manner he completely re-established the captain's finances, and as
presents of provisions poured in from the frightened villagers the
young rascal and his chief lived well. But he now grew bolder, and,
selecting half a dozen of the most desperate men in the company,
began to rob passengers on the high road. His captain, learning of
this, however, immediately put a stop to such dangerous proceedings.

One day Guzman observed that among the few jewels the captain still
had left to him there was a very handsome gold reliquary set with
diamonds, and this he begged his superior to lend him for a few
days. The audacious stripling at once took it to a jeweller's,
to whom he offered it for two hundred crowns. But the man would
only tender him a hundred and twenty, and this Guzman refused. The
jeweller called upon him next day to renew his offer, which the lad
accepted. Guzman handed him the purse in which the reliquary was kept,
receiving the hundred and twenty crowns in exchange. But the old fellow
had scarcely left the house when the young adventurer raised a cry
of "Stop thief! Stop thief!" Some soldiers immediately arrested the
jeweller, and Guzman cried out that he had robbed him of the captain's
reliquary. The jeweller assured the arquebusiers that he had paid a
hundred and twenty crowns for the article, but this Guzman denied. The
wretched goldsmith was haled before a magistrate, and, as he had a
bad reputation for usury, was forced to disgorge the reliquary. But
although the captain was glad enough to get the money thus scurvily
gained, he feared that further association with such a rascal as de
Alfarache would ruin him. In a few days the company set sail for Genoa,
and when they had arrived there his superior intimated that they must
part, at the same time thrusting a pistole into his hand.

Tormented by Devils

The young adventurer now began to make inquiries about his relations,
and was informed that they were the most rich and powerful persons
in the republic. He inquired the way to their mansion, where he
was but ill received, all the more so as his appearance was shabby
in the extreme. But as he had taken care to make his relationship
to them public property, they could not very well repulse him. One
evening he met a venerable-looking old man, who told him that he had
known his father, and that he felt quite indignant at the behaviour
of his relations toward him, and offered him an asylum at his own
house. Without giving him anything to eat, he at once sent him to bed,
where the wretched lad lay tormented by the pangs of hunger. Before he
went to sleep the old man informed him that the room he occupied had
the reputation of being haunted by evil spirits. Famished and restless,
Guzman lay awake, when to his horror four figures in the shape of
devils entered the chamber and dragged him out of bed. Throwing him
into a blanket, they tossed him in the air with such violence that he
struck the ceiling again and again, until, exhausted by the exercise,
they placed him in bed once more and departed. In the early morning,
stiff, sore, and dejected, Guzman crawled from the mansion, but he
registered an oath never to forget the detestable manner in which his
acquaintance had treated him, and resolved to be avenged upon him at
the first opportunity.

Guzman Joins the Beggars of Rome

Leaving Genoa in this miserable plight, in which he compares himself
to one of those who escaped from the battle of Roncesvalles,
Guzman resolved to make his way to Rome. Italy, he says, is the
most charitable country in the world, and anyone who can beg can
travel within its bounds without concerning himself about his next
meal. In a few weeks he found himself in the Roman Catholic capital,
with money enough in his pocket to buy a new suit of clothes, but
he resisted the temptation to do so, and wandered about the streets
of the Imperial city seeking alms. He soon fell in with a comrade in
distress, who enlightened him regarding the manners and customs of the
beggars of Rome and who gave him such good instructions that he soon
received more money than he could spend. In a short time Guzman was
a perfect master of the trade of begging. After spending some weeks
in this kind of life he fell in with one of the master-beggars of the
city, who instructed him in the laws of begging, which he sets forth
at length in his autobiography. These laws Guzman got by heart. The
beggars lived together, and met in the evening to practise and invent
new exclamations to excite pity. In the morning there was usually a
scramble among them to see who could get nearest the holy water at
the entrance to the churches, for there it was that the greatest
harvest was reaped, and in the evening the beggars usually made
a round of the country seats in the neighbourhood of Rome, whence
they returned laden with provisions. Nearly all of the beggars were
adepts at simulating bodily malformations or loathsome diseases. On one
occasion, in the town of Gaeta, Guzman simulated a terrible disease of
the head, and the Governor, who was passing, gave him alms. Next day
he sat at the porch of a church with what appeared to be a grievous
affection of the leg, and much money was flowing in upon him, when
unhappily the Governor chanced to pass, and recognizing him, told him
that he would give him some cast-off clothing if he would follow him
home. Arrived there the Governor asked him by what singular remedy
he had contrived to cure himself of his former complaint within the
short space of one day, and without waiting for an answer sent for a