“I suppose your lordship knows who I am?” said I, at last breaking silence.
The archbishop bent his head towards the right shoulder, in a somewhat equivocal manner, but said nothing.
“I am he whom the _Manolos_ of Madrid call _Don Jorgito el Ingles_; I am just come out of prison, whither I was sent for circulating my Lord’s Gospel in this kingdom of Spain.”
The archbishop made the same equivocal motion with his head, but still said nothing.
“I was informed that your lordship was desirous of seeing me, and on that account I have paid you this visit.”
“I did not send for you,” said the archbishop, suddenly, raising his head with a startled look.
“Perhaps not: I was, however, given to understand that my presence would be agreeable; but as that does not seem to be the case, I will leave.”
“Since you are come, I am very glad to see you.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said I, reseating myself; “and since I am here, we may as well talk of an all-important matter, the circulation of the Scripture. Does your lordship see any way by which an end so desirable might be brought about?”
“Does not your lordship think that a knowledge of the Scripture would work inestimable benefit in these realms?”
“Is it probable that the government may be induced to consent to the circulation?”
“How should I know?” and the archbishop looked me in the face.
I looked in the face of the archbishop; there was an expression of helplessness in it, which almost amounted to dotage. “Dear me,” thought I, “whom have I come to on an errand like mine? Poor man! you are not fitted to play the part of Martin Luther, and least of all in Spain. I wonder why your friends selected you to be Archbishop of Toledo; they thought perhaps that you would do neither good nor harm, and made choice of you, as they sometimes do primates in my own country, for your incapacity. You do not seem very happy in your present situation; no very easy stall this of yours. You were more comfortable, I trow, when you were the poor Bishop of Mallorca; could enjoy your _puchera_ then without fear that the salt would turn out sublimate. No fear then of being smothered in your bed. A _siesta_ is a pleasant thing when one is not subject to be disturbed by ‘the sudden fear.’ I wonder whether they have poisoned you already,” I continued, half aloud, as I kept my eyes fixed on his countenance, which methought was becoming ghastly.