The chamber itself was different. It contained one chair, plain and rude as that of any anchorite, in which the Abbot sat, a stool for the father confessor, a pallet bed, a rough shelf with half a dozen worn volumes above it, two great books with locked clasps of metal--these composed the entire furniture of the chamber of one of the most powerful princes of Holy Church in the world. "It is no use, Anselmo," said the Abbot, gravely toying with the clasp of one of the open books, in which a few lines of writing were still wet, "after all, we are but playing with the matter here. The cure lies elsewhere. We may indeed keep our petty bounds intact, sheltering within a dozen of leagues not one known unfaithful to the true King, and the principles of the Catholic religion; but we do not hold even Aragon with any certainty. The cities whelm us in spite of ourselves. Zaragoza itself is riddled with sedition, rottenly Jacobin to the core!" "An accursed den of thieves!" said the gloomy monk. "God will judge it in His time!" "Doubtless--doubtless. I most fully agree!" said the Abbot, softly, "but meantime it is His will that we use such means as we have in our hands to work out the divine ends. It is well known to you that there is one man who is driving this estate of Spain to the verge of a devil's precipice." With a look of dark shrewdness the priest dropped his head closer to his superior's ear. "Mendizabal," he said, "Mendizabal, the Jew of Madrid, the lover of heretic England, the overgrown cat's-paw of the money-brokers, the gabbler of the monkeys' chatter called 'liberal principles,' the evil councillor of a foolish queen." "Even so," sighed the Abbot. "To such God for a time grants power to scourge His very elect. Great is their power--for a time. They flourish like a green bay tree--for a time. But doth not the Wise Man say in the Scripture, 'Better is wisdom than many battalions, and a prudent man than a man of war'? You and I, father, must be the prudent men." "But will not our brave Don Carlos soon rid us of these dead dogs of Madrid?" said the Confessor. "What of his great generals Cabrera and El Serrador? They have gained great victories. God has surely been with their arms!" The Prior shrugged his shoulders with a slight but inconceivably contemptuous movement, which indicated that he was weary of the father's line of argument. "Another than yourself, Anselmo, might mistake me for a scoffer when I say that in this matter we must be our own Don Carlos, our own generals--nay, our own Providence. To be plain, Carlos V.--that blessed and truly legitimate sovereign, is a donkey; Cabrera, a brave but cruel _guerrillero_ who will get a shot through him one fine day, as all these gluttons for fighting do!--The rest of the generals are even as Don Carlos, and as for Providence--well, believe me, reverend father, in these later days, even Providence has left poor Spain to fend for herself?"