The Spaniard paid no attention to the dying man’s request, and reported the circumstance to the chapter of the order, according to the prescribed rules; nevertheless he was promoted to the priory of Majorca. On the night of the following Friday, he dreamt that he was in the Strada Stretta, where he again heard his enemy enjoin him to “bear his sword to _Tête Foulques_;” and a similar vision disturbed his slumbers every succeeding Friday night. Vasconcellos did not know where this _Tête Foulques_ was situated, until he learned from some French knights, that it was an old castle four leagues from Poitiers, in the centre of a forest remarkable for strange events; the castle containing in its halls many curious collections, amongst which was the armour of the famed knight _Foulques Taillefer_, with the arms of all the enemies he had slain in single combat; and from time immemorial, it appeared that all his successors deposited in this armoury the weapons which they used either in war or in private contests. Our worthy prior having received this information, determined to obey the injunction of the deceased, and set out for Poitiers with the sword of his antagonist. He repaired to the castle, where he found no one but the porter and the chaplain, and communicated to the latter the purport of his visit. He was introduced into the armoury, and on each side of the chimney he beheld full-length, portraits of Foulques Taillefer, and his wife, Isabella de Lusignan. The seneschal was armed _cap-a-pié_, and over him were suspended the arms of his vanquished foes. The Spaniard, having laid down the sword, proceeded to tell his beads with great devotion until nightfall, when he fancied that he saw the eyes and mouths of the seneschal and his wife in motion; and he distinctly heard the former addressing his wife, saying, “What dost thou think, my dear, of the daring of this Castilian, who comes to dwell and eat in my castle, after having killed the commander without allowing him time to confess his sins?”--to which the lady replied in a very shrill voice, “I think, Messir, that the Castilian acted with disloyalty on that occasion, and should not be allowed to depart without the challenge of your glove.” The terrified Spaniard sought the door of the hall, but found it locked, when the seneschal threw his heavy iron gauntlet at his face, and brandished his sword. The Spaniard, thus compelled to defend himself, snatched up the sword that he had deposited, and falling on his fantastic antagonist, fancied that he had run him through the body, when he felt a stab from a burning weapon under the heart, and fainted away. When he recovered from his swoon, he found himself in the porter’s lodge, to which he had been carried, but free from any injury. He returned to Spain; but ever after, on every Friday night, he received a similar burning wound from the visionary Taillefer; nor could any act of devotion, or payment of money to friars