e of start in morning, and have our car
ready--Respectfully, P. Ropes."

Some servant of the house or stable-boy had doubtless earned a few
pesetas. Just how the trick had been done, was of little importance, for
it was done. With a light heart in my breast, and Cristobal O'Donnel y
Alvarez' uniform still unsuitably adorning my back, I went with the others
to do some sightseeing, and look for Monica.

We wandered rather aimlessly through the streets, stopping before any
building which caught our interest; staring up at the windows behind which
Cervantes wrote part of "Don Quixote" when he had come back from slavery;
admiring the graceful mirador of that corner house where Philip the Second
was born; ("Much too good for him, since the world would have been better
if he hadn't been born at all," said Dick, who has Dutch ancestors and a
long memory;) trying to identify the place where Gil Blas studied medicine
with Doctor Sangrado; wandering into two or three churches, but wasting no
time on the cathedral spoilt by Churriguera.

"As a Spaniard, what's your opinion of the Inquisition?" Dick suddenly
asked the Cherub, as if he were inquiring the time of day. We had stopped
for a moment in the Plaza Mayor where Philip had watched the heretics
burning in their yellow, flame-painted shirts, in the first great
_auto-da-fe_ which he organized.

As another Spaniard, I know that this is the one question of all others,
perhaps, which it is not wise to put to a Spaniard, even in this
comfortable twentieth century. But Dick either did not know, or wished it
to appear that he did not know; and I watched the effect of the words. But
the Cherub was equal to the occasion--and his cherubicness.

He glanced round instinctively, as a man might a few centuries ago, to
make sure that nobody overheard; then smiling slowly, he replied, "I am no
judge, senor; I am half-Irishman."

Pilar had looked disturbed, but she gave a little sigh at this, saying,
"Come on, and see the museum."

Nowhere in Spain can there be a more beautiful thing than that facade,
well named Plateresque because of its resemblance to the workmanship of
silversmiths; and inside the museum we found a collection of carved wooden
figures marvellous enough, as Dick said, to "beat the world." There were
crucifixions, painted saints, and weeping virgins by Hernandez and
Berruguete, faultlessly modelled, so vivid and beautiful as to be
well-nigh startling; and I hoped that Mon