There is a celebrated coffee-house in the Calle d’Alcala at Madrid, capable of holding several hundred individuals. On the evening of the day in question, I was seated there, sipping a cup of the brown beverage, when I heard a prodigious noise and clamour in the street; it proceeded from the nationals, who were returning from their expedition. In a few minutes I saw a body of them enter the coffee-house marching arm in arm, two by two, stamping on the ground with their feet in a kind of measure, and repeating in loud chorus as they walked round the spacious apartment, the following grisly stanza:— “Que es lo que abaja Por aquel cerro? Ta ra ra ra ra. Son los huesos de Quesada, Que los trae un perro— Ta ra ra ra ra.” {146} A huge bowl of coffee was then called for, which was placed upon a table, around which gathered the national soldiers: there was silence for a moment, which was interrupted by a voice roaring out, “_el panuelo_!” A blue kerchief was forthwith produced, which appeared to contain a substance of some kind; it was untied, and a gory hand and three or four dissevered fingers made their appearance, and with these the contents of the bowl were stirred up. “Cups! cups!” cried the nationals. “Ho, ho, Don Jorge,” cried Baltasarito, coming up to me with a cup of coffee, “pray do me the favour to drink upon this glorious occasion. This is a pleasant day for Spain, and for the gallant nationals of Madrid. I have seen many a bull funcion, but none which has given me so much pleasure as this. Yesterday the brute had it all his own way, but to-day the toreros have prevailed, as you see, Don Jorge. Pray drink; for I must now run home to fetch my pajandi to play my brethren a tune, and sing a copla. What shall it be? Something in Gitano? “Una noche sinava en tucue.” You shake your head, Don Jorge. Ha, ha; I am young, and youth is the time for pleasure; well, well, out of compliment to you, who are an Englishman and a monro, it shall not be that, but something liberal, something patriotic, the Hymn of Riego—Hasta despues, Don Jorge!” CHAPTER XV The Steamer—Cape Finisterre—The Storm—Arrival at Cadiz—The New Testament—Seville—Italica—The Amphitheatre—The Prisoners—The Encounter—Baron Taylor—The Street and Desert. At the commencement of November, I again found myself on the salt water, on my way to Spain. I had returned to England shortly after the events which have been narrated in the last chapter, for the purpose of consulting with my friends, and for planning the opening of a biblical campaign in Spain. It was now determined by us to print the New Testament, with as little delay as possible, at Madrid; and I was to be entrusted with the somewhat arduous task of its distribution. My stay in England was very short, for time was precious, and I was eager to return to the field of action.