admirable. The band of robbers are disguised as
priests, and officiate, without being found out.

_B._ But isn't that rather sacrilegious?

_A._ No; it appears so to be, but he gives his reasons for his behaviour
to the pope, and the pope is satisfied, and not only gives him his
blessing, but shows him the greatest respect.

_B._ They must have been very weighty reasons.

_A._ And therefore they are not divulged.

_B._ That is to say, not until the end of the work.

_A._ They are never divulged at all; I leave a great deal to the
reader's imagination--people are fond of conjecture. All they know is,
that he boldly appears, and demands an audience. He is conducted in, the
interview is private, after a sign made by our hero, and at which the
pope almost leaps off his chair. After an hour he comes out again, and
the pope bows him to the very door. Every one is astonished, and, of
course, almost canonise him.

_B_ That's going it rather strong in a Catholic country. But tell me,
Ansard, what is your plot?

_A._ Plot! I have none.

_B._ No plot!

_A._ No plot, and all plot. I puzzle the reader with certain materials.
I have castles and dungeons, corridors and creaking doors, good villains
and bad villains. Chain armour and clank of armour, daggers for
gentlemen, and stilettos for ladies. Dark forests and brushwood,
drinking scenes, eating scenes, and sleeping scenes--robbers and friars,
purses of gold and instruments of torture, an incarnate devil of a
Jesuit, a handsome hero, and a lovely heroine. I jumble them all
together, sometimes above, and sometimes underground, and I explain
nothing at all.

_B._ Have you nothing supernatural?

_A._ O yes! I've a dog whose instinct is really supernatural, and I have
two or three visions, which may be considered so, as they tell what
never else could have been known. I decorate my caverns and dungeons
with sweltering toads and slimy vipers, a constant dropping of water,
with chains too ponderous to lift, but which the parties upon whom they
are riveted, clang together as they walk up and down in their cells, and
soliloquise. So much for my underground scenery. Above, I people the
halls with pages and ostrich feathers, and knights in bright armour, a
constant supply of generous wine, and goblets too heavy to lift, which
the knights toss off at a draught, as they sit and listen to the
minstrel's music.

_B._ Bravo, Ansard, bravo. It appears to me that you do not want