On arriving in the street, he laid his heavy hand upon my arm, not roughly however. “It is Calros! it is Calros!” said a hundred voices; “he has come to Finisterra at last, and the justicia have now got hold of him.” Wondering what all this could mean, I attended my strange conductor down the street. As we proceeded, the crowd increased every moment, following and vociferating. Even the sick were brought to the door to obtain a view of what was going forward and a glance at the redoubtable Calros. I was particularly struck by the eagerness displayed by one man, a cripple, who, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, mixed with the crowd, and having lost his crutch, hopped forward on one leg, exclaiming,—“_Carracho_! _tambien voy yo_!” We at last reached a house of rather larger size than the rest; my guide having led me into a long low room, placed me in the middle of the floor, and then hurrying to the door, he endeavoured to repulse the crowd who strove to enter with us. This he effected, though not without considerable difficulty, being once or twice compelled to have recourse to the butt of his musket, to drive back unauthorized intruders. I now looked round the room. It was rather scantily furnished: I could see nothing but some tubs and barrels, the mast of a boat, and a sail or two. Seated upon the tubs were three or four men coarsely dressed, like fishermen or shipwrights. The principal personage was a surly ill-tempered-looking fellow of about thirty-five, whom eventually I discovered to be the alcalde of Finisterra, and lord of the house in which we now were. In a corner I caught a glimpse of my guide, who was evidently in durance, two stout fishermen standing before him, one with a musket and the other with a boat-hook. After I had looked about me for a minute, the alcalde, giving his whiskers a twist, thus addressed me:— “Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings you to Finisterra?” _Myself_.—I am an Englishman. Here is my passport, and I came to see Finisterra. This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They looked at each other, then at my passport. At length the alcalde, striking it with his finger, bellowed forth: “This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.” _Myself_.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner. I of course carry a foreign passport. _Alcalde_.—Then you mean to assert that you are not Calros Rey. _Myself_.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name. _Alcalde_.—Hark to the fellow: he has the audacity to say that he has never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king. _Myself_.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can reply is, that you can scarcely be serious. You might as well assert that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is his nephew, the infante Don Sebastian. _Alcalde_.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we suppose him to be.