“If I have, I have,” said he, patting my shoulder with a familiarity for which I did not thank him. “After all, the murder was obliged to come out. Is it the part of valour to shun the truth? My young companion, I feel sure you are one of those who respect that pious opinion that is shared by P. Ovidius Naso and other learned commentators upon the subject. Indeed, it is very well that a name which stands so high in middle Europe is come into this outer part. Quite recently I feared it to be otherwise. I met an itinerant priest, not a month ago, bald, obese, and biblical, who said that to his mind my name was deficient. ‘Fair sir, for what is it celebrated?’ was his question. ‘For what is it celebrated, reverend one?’ was my rejoinder. ‘Why, where can you have lived these virtuous years of yours? It is the name of a notorious pea-nut and straw-sucker.’ ‘That is verily a singular accomplishment,’ said the reverend father in God. ‘Yes, your reverence,’ I answered, ‘this old honest fellow can draw a nut through a straw with the same complacency as a good churchman can draw sack through the neck of a bottle.’ ‘That is indeed remarkable,’ said the reverend father, and proceeded to demonstrate that as pea-nuts were wide and straws were narrow, it was no light matter. ‘Yes, my father,’ said I, ‘that is a very just observation. But I am sure you would be the last to believe that one who has a king’s blood flowing under his doublet would bring his mind to anything trivial.’ ‘Doubtless your view is the correct one,’ said the reverend sceptic, ‘but all the same, I fail to see how a king’s blood would be able to compass a feat of that nature.’ ‘There is none shall say what a king’s blood will compass,’ was my final rejoinder, ‘for there is a particular genius in it.’ Yet, my young son of the Spains, I have little doubt that the worthy Dominican is still breaking his mind upon this problem behind the walls of Mother Church; and such is the subtlety of these scholars with their thumb rules and their logicality, that presently you shall find that this innocent pleasantry has unhinged the brains of half the clerks in Salamanca.” “You have indeed a ready wit and a subtle contrivance, sir,” said I at the conclusion of this ridiculous tale, for it was plain that he looked for some such comment upon it. “You must blame my nation for that. Every Englishman is witty when he has taken wine; he is an especially bright dog in everything after the drinking of beer. You dull rogues of the continent can form no conception of an Englishman’s humour.” “How comes it, sir, that you find yourself an exile from this land which, by your account of it, is fair unspeakably?” “It is a matter of fortune,” he made answer. “Is that to say you are on a quest of fortune?” said I, breathing high at this magic word. “You have come to the truth,” said he with a sigh and a smile and a sidelong look at the sword that hung by his leg.