I was walking late one night alone in the _alameda_ of Saint James, considering in what direction I should next bend my course, for I had been already ten days in this place; the moon was shining gloriously, and illumined every object around to a considerable distance. The _alameda_ was quite deserted; everybody, with the exception of myself, having for some time retired. I sat down on a bench and continued my reflections, which were suddenly interrupted by a heavy stumping sound. Turning my eyes in the direction from which it proceeded, I perceived what at first appeared a shapeless bulk slowly advancing: nearer and nearer it drew, and I could now distinguish the outline of a man dressed in coarse brown garments, a kind of Andalusian hat, and using as a staff the long peeled branch of a tree. He had now arrived opposite the bench where I was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and demanded charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which had some resemblance to the Catalan. The moon shone on grey locks and on a ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once recognized. “Benedict Mol,” said I, “is it possible that I see you at Compostella?” “_Och_, _mein Gott_, _es ist der Herr_!” {382a} replied Benedict. “_Och_, what good fortune, that the Herr is the first person I meet at Compostella!” _Myself_.—I can scarcely believe my eyes. Do you mean to say that you have just arrived at this place? _Benedict_.—Ow yes, I am this moment arrived. I have walked all the long way from Madrid. _Myself_.—What motive could possibly bring you such a distance? _Benedict_.—Ow, I am come for the _Schatz_—the treasure. I told you at Madrid that I was coming; and now I have met you here, I have no doubt that I shall find it, the _Schatz_. _Myself_.—In what manner did you support yourself by the way? _Benedict_.—Ow, I begged, I bettled, {382b} and so contrived to pick up some _cuartos_; and when I reached Toro, I worked at my trade of soap-making for a time, till the people said I knew nothing about it, and drove me out of the town. So I went on and begged and bettled till I arrived at Orense, which is in this country of Galicia. Ow, I do not like this country of Galicia at all. _Myself_.—Why not? _Benedict_.—Why! because here they all beg and bettle, and have scarce anything for themselves, much less for me, whom they know to be a foreign man. Oh, the misery of Galicia! When I arrive at night at one of their pigsties, which they call _posadas_, and ask for bread to eat in the name of God, and straw to lie down in, they curse me, and say there is neither bread nor straw in Galicia: and sure enough, since I have been here I have seen neither, only something that they call _broa_, and a kind of reedy rubbish with which they litter the horses: all my bones are sore since I entered Galicia. _Myself_.—And yet you have come to this country, which you call so miserable, in search of treasure?