Return your fine
clothes and magic rattan to those from whom you had them. Put on
your old garments, grasp your ragged staff, and come with me to the
Sagra, to assist in circulating the illustrious Gospel amongst the
rustics on the Tagus' bank."
Benedict mused for a moment, then shaking his head, he cried, "No,
no, I must accomplish my destiny. The schatz is not yet dug up.
So said the voice in the barranco. To-morrow to Compostella. I
shall find it - the schatz - it is still there - it MUST be there."
He went, and I never saw him more. What I heard, however, was
extraordinary enough. It appeared that the government had listened
to his tale, and had been so struck with Bennet's exaggerated
description of the buried treasure, that they imagined that, by a
little trouble and outlay, gold and diamonds might be dug up at
Saint James sufficient to enrich themselves and to pay off the
national debt of Spain. The Swiss returned to Compostella "like a
duke," to use his own words. The affair, which had at first been
kept a profound secret, was speedily divulged. It was, indeed,
resolved that the investigation, which involved consequences of so
much importance, should take place in a manner the most public and
imposing. A solemn festival was drawing nigh, and it was deemed
expedient that the search should take place on that day. The day
arrived. All the bells in Compostella pealed. The whole populace
thronged from their houses, a thousand troops were drawn up in the
square, the expectation of all was wound up to the highest pitch.
A procession directed its course to the church of San Roque; at its
head was the captain-general and the Swiss, brandishing in his hand
the magic rattan, close behind walked the meiga, the Gallegan
witch-wife, by whom the treasure-seeker had been originally guided
in the search; numerous masons brought up the rear, bearing
implements to break up the ground. The procession enters the
church, they pass through it in solemn march, they find themselves
in a vaulted passage. The Swiss looks around. "Dig here," said he
suddenly. "Yes, dig here," said the meiga. The masons labour, the
floor is broken up, - a horrible and fetid odour arises. . . .
Enough; no treasure was found, and my warning to the unfortunate
Swiss turned out but too prophetic. He was forthwith seized and
flung into the horrid prison of Saint James, amidst the execrations
of thousands, who would have gladly torn him limb from limb.
The affair did not terminate here. The political opponents of the
government did not allow so favourable an opportunity to escape for
launching the shafts of ridicule. The Moderados were taunted in
the cortes for their avarice and credulity, whilst the liberal
press wafted on its wings through Spain the story of the treasure-
hunt at Saint James.
"After all, it was a trampa of Don Jorge's," said one of my
enemies. "That fellow is at the bottom of half the picardias which
happen in Spain."
Eager to learn the fate of the Swiss, I wrote to my old friend Rey
Romero, at Compostella. In his answer he states: "I saw the Swiss
in prison, to which place he sent for me, craving my assistance,
for the sake of the friendship which I bore to you. But how could
I help him? He was speedily after removed from Saint James, I know
not whither. It is said that he disappeared on the road."
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Where in the whole cycle
of romance shall we find anything more wild, grotesque, and sad,
than the easily-authenticated history of Benedict Mol, the
treasure-digger of Saint James?
CHAPTER XLIII
Villa Seca - Moorish House - The Puchera - The Rustic Council - Polite
Ceremonial - The Flower of Spain - The Bridge of Azeca - The Ruined
Castle - Taking the Field - Demand for the Word - The Old Peasant - The
Curate and Blacksmith - Cheapness of the Scriptures.
It was one of the most fiercely hot days in which I ever braved the
sun, when I arrived at Villa Seca. The heat in the shade must have
amounted at least to one hundred degrees, and the entire atmosphere
seemed to consist of flickering flame. At a place called Leganez,
six leagues from Madrid, and about half way to Toledo, we diverged
from the highway, bending our course seemingly towards the south-
east. We rode over what are called plains in Spain, but which, in
any other part of the world, would be called undulating and broken
ground. The crops of corn and barley had already disappeared. The
last vestiges discoverable being here and there a few sheaves,
which the labourers were occupied in removing to their garners in
the villages. The country could scarcely be called beautiful,
being perfectly naked, exhibiting neither trees nor verdure. It
was not, however, without its pretensions to grandeur and
magnificence, like every part of Spain. The most prominent objects
were two huge calcareous hills or rather one cleft in twain, which
towered up on high; the summit of the nearest being surmounted by
the ruins of an ancient castle, that of Villaluenga. About an hour
past noon we reached Villa Seca.
We found it a large village, containing about seven hundred
inhabitants, and surrounded by a mud wall. A plaza, or market-
place, stood in the midst, one side of which is occupied by what is
called a palace, a clumsy quadrangular building of two stories,
belonging to some noble family, the lords of the neighbouring soil.
It was deserted, however, being only occupied by a kind of steward,
who stored up in its chambers the grain which he received as rent
from the tenants and villanos who farmed the surrounding district.
The village stands at the distance of about a quarter of a league
from the bank of the Tagus, which even here, in the heart of Spain,
is a beautiful stream, not navigable, however, on account of the
sandbanks, which in many places assume the appearance of small
islands, and are covered with trees and brushwood.
