I was introduced to a Spanish renegade, a great many make their escape
from the presidios of the North. On getting away from these convict
establishments, they adopt the Mahometan religion, are pretty well
received by the Maroquines, and generally pass the rest of their days
tranquilly among the Moors. I imagine the better sort of them remain
Christians at heart, notwithstanding their public assumption of
Islamism. This renegade was a stonemason, whom I found at work, and he
was not at all distinguishable by strangers from the Moors, being
dressed precisely in the same fashion. I had some conversation with him,
which was characteristic of conceit, feeling and honour.
_Traveller_ - "How long have you escaped?"
_Renegade._ - "More than twenty years."
_Traveller._ - "Do you like this country and the Moors?"
_Renegade._ - "Better is Marruecos than Spain."
_Traveller._ - "Shall you ever attempt to return to Spain?"
_Renegade._ - "Why? here I have all I want. Besides, they would stretch
my neck for sending a fellow out of the world without his previously
having had an interview with his confessor."
_Traveller._ - "Are you not conscience-stricken? having committed such a
crime, how can you mention it?"
_Renegade._ - "Pooh, conscience! pooh, corazor!"
Many of those wretched men have indeed lost their corazor, or it is
seared with a red-hot iron.
Some hundreds of these Spanish convicts are scattered over the country,
but they soon lose their nationality.
