_Antonio_.—One who will come to a strange end, _for so it is written_. The most extraordinary of all the Swiss, he of Saint James—_Der Schatz Gräber_. {165} _Myself_.—Not Benedict Mol? “_Yaw_, _mein lieber Herr_,” said Benedict, pushing open the door which stood ajar; “it is myself. I met _Herr Anton_ in the street, and hearing that you were in this place, I came with him to visit you.” _Myself_.—And in the name of all that is singular, how is it that I see you in Madrid again? I thought that by this time you were returned to your own country. _Benedict_.—Fear not, _lieber Herr_, I shall return thither in good time; but not on foot, but with mules and coach. The _Schatz_ is still yonder, waiting to be dug up, and now I have better hope than ever; plenty of friends, plenty of money. See you not how I am dressed, _lieber Herr_? And verily his habiliments were of a much more respectable appearance than any which he had sported on former occasions. His coat and pantaloons, which were of light green, were nearly new. On his head he still wore an Andalusian hat, but the present one was neither old nor shabby, but fresh and glossy, and of immense altitude of cone; whilst in his hand, instead of the ragged staff which I had observed at Saint James and Oviedo, he now carried a huge bamboo rattan, surmounted by the grim head of either a bear or lion, curiously cut out of pewter. “You have all the appearance of a treasure-seeker returned from a successful expedition,” I exclaimed. “Or rather,” interrupted Antonio, “of one who has ceased to trade on his own bottom, and now goes seeking treasures at the cost and expense of others.”