“Has he so?” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “That sounds like a deep rascal. I am convinced this accursed innkeeper has the eye of a picker and stealer.” “I pray you, sir, not to accuse the poor man. I feel sure he would not stoop to such an act, and already he has been misused grievously.” “Well, good Don, if you are clear as to his innocence--and I am not sure of it myself--and you really had this amount of money?” “Oh yes, to be sure I had--it was my patrimony.” “And it did not walk out of the inn of itself, and that black-eyed little wench has not touched it--and though she’s a rude quean I believe she would not--and there is no hole in your pocket--is it possible there is a hole in your pocket, good Don?” “There is no hole in my pocket, sir.” “And there is no cat or dog about the premises; and the innkeeper, by an odd chance--for he is the first of his kidney that is--is an honest man--you have either mislaid your purse, good Don, you never had it, or as you lay asleep you must have dreamed of fortune and have swallowed it.” Although the Englishman’s gravity was so admirable, it helped me but little; and when I got on my knees to creep all over the ground to seek for my treasure, and met all manner of filth by the way, he too began poking about with the point of his sword, yet met with no better success than did I. “It is a case for a physician,” he said, “for a man to dream of fortune, and in the unnatural excitation of his mind to swallow all his money.” “I know not what to do,” said I miserably. “I have not a groat to take me to Toledo.” The Englishman rubbed his chin again; and this I observed was his habit when he thought heavily. “This is indeed a devil of a matter,” he said. “You see, if you had had a little money you could have been my squire and I could have borne you with me; but I do not see how one of my condition can take a squire into his service unless he receives a fee for so doing.” “Well, sir,” I said, feeling that now no choice was left to me, “I am prepared to take service with you.” “Are you so?” said the Englishman, rubbing his chin harder than ever. “Yes, but you see, Master Miguel, a person of my quality does not receive a squire into his service for the love of his eyes.” “My blood, sir, is of the first condition,” said I humbly. “My father’s pedigree is contained in the archives of Simancas.” “Yes, fair shrew; but a pedigree will not grow apples, as we say in our plain English manner. My own pedigree can be referred to between the hours of eleven and three at the Herald’s College in the city of London; but I should not have got so much as a cup of sack by it unless it had been accompanied by a good sword. You see, Master Miguel, had you had an hundred crowns you might have borne your knee by my saddle and looked at the world; but since you have had the misfortune to swallow every silver piece in your possession, body of God!--to use a profane expression--I do not see what is to be done with you.”