to see a countryman of his in these
Gothic wildernesses. Stay, I think I see a book in your hand."

MYSELF: The New Testament.

ALCALDE: Why do you carry such a book with you?

MYSELF: One of my principal motives in visiting Finisterra was to carry
this book to that wild place.

ALCALDE: Ah, ah! how very singular. Yes, I remember. I have heard that
the English highly prize this eccentric book. How very singular that the
countrymen of the grand Bentham should set any value upon that old
monkish book.

I told him that I had read none of Bentham's writings; but nevertheless
I had to thank that philosopher not only for my release, but for
hospitable treatment during the rest of my stay in the region of
Finisterra.

From Corcuvion I returned to Compostella and Coruna, and then directed
my course to Asturias. At Oviedo, I again met Benedict Mol. He had
sought to get permission to disinter the treasure, and had not
succeeded. He had then tried to reach France, begging by the way. He was
in villainous apparel, and nearly barefooted. He promised to quit Spain
and return to Lucerne, and I gave him a few dollars.

"A strange man is this Benedict," said my servant Antonio. "A strange
life he has led and a strange death he will die--it is written on his
countenance. That he will leave Spain I do not believe, or, if he leave
it, it will only be to return, for he is bewitched about this same
treasure."

Soon afterwards I returned to Madrid. During my northern journey, which
occupied a considerable portion of the year 1837, I had accomplished
less than I proposed to myself. Something, however, had been effected.
The New Testament was now enjoying a quiet sale in the principal towns
of the north.

I had, moreover, disposed of a considerable number of Testaments with my
own hands.

_IV.--The Persecution_

I spent some months in Madrid translating the New Testament into the
Basque and Gypsy languages. During this time the hostility of the
priesthood to my labours became very bitter. The Governor of Madrid
forbade the sale of Testaments in January, 1838; afterwards all copies
of the Gypsy Gospel were confiscated, and in May I was thrown into
prison. I went cheerfully enough, knowing that the British Embassy was
actively working for my release; and the governor of the prison, one of
the greatest rascals in all Spain, greeted me with a most courteous
speech in pure sonorous Castilian, bidding me consider myself as a guest