‘Oh, I cry thee pardon, good Gull,’ replied the other; ‘I forgot me you had as big a swallow as the rest. Ah, yes, to be sure, Our Lady of the Hill! Verily, a valorous and a venturesome dame. It was a brave device of señors the canons, that last miracle; a most surpassing feat, truly. Here is a blessed image of the blessed Virgin, dressed out as never was doll before; petticoats of cloth of gold, I warrant me, and stiff, absolutely stiff, with diamonds, pearls, rubies, and what not. Well! here comes an English man-of-war into these seas—the “Oxford,” I think, they call her. Bah! how these barbarous names stick in a gentleman’s throat; and so, by misadventure, this man-of-war, this heretical “Ox—Ox—Oxford,” taking fire, no doubt by reason of sparks from—from purgatory, to say the very least of it—this man-of-war blowing up, what say señors the canons? Down rush they from the shrine, all through the city, clamouring, “A miracle! A miracle!” Straightway the most greasy and gullible mob throng to the sanctuary—and what see they there? The Virgin, the doll, that is, in its place behind the altar, but all bemudded, all bedraggled, her gay clothes drenched with salt water, the gold embroidery torn away in flakes, the diamonds, and pearls, and rubies, all dropped and gone from stomacher and skirt; in fact, a very mutilated memorial of her yesterday’s glory. Great ejaculations of surprise and consternation! Mighty invocations to every saint in and out of the calendar! Evidently, a most dread secret, a most mighty mystery—a matter of holy wonder to the faithful!’ ‘Don José! Don José!’ interrupted the old man, who had listened very impatiently to this tirade; ‘the tongue is an unruly member. Take heed what you utter. The holy office hath ears which hear afar, and hands which smite afar. Who knows who may be even now listening to you? For my part I would not breathe to myself what you have spoken aloud, even were I alone in a boat fivescore miles from land.’