"As a matter of fact," he went on with increasing earnestness, "you stand at present in the most important city of Spain--Toledo--which possesses one of the most valuable collections of ancient historical manuscripts that have remained untranscribed since centuries and centuries before the days of the ill-fated Armada. In the minds of the rulers, however, the time has come for these documents to be disinterred from the chests in which they have lain from time immemorial, to be deciphered, and to be given to the world at the discretion of the head curator. Now, that place of head curator is vacant, and, although it is decided that only a Spaniard can fill it, I can easily get you letters of naturalisation, for I am empowered to offer you that position--a life appointment--at a salary of 2000 pounds English each year." In spite of myself I gasped at the munificence of this offer. In a flash I saw all the magnificent possibilities of a position of eminence and of usefulness such as that--to practise as a means of livelihood the finest and most fascinating hobby man who loved history ever had--and I own I was just on the point of accepting it when I felt instinctively the prick of the thorn hidden beneath the rose. I had to renounce my rights as an Englishman! I had to disavow my birthright! I had to throw aside the thing I treasured most--pride of race and birth! How could I do this with those burning words of the old hermit in his cell ringing even then in my ears? The Order of St Bruno might be a gang of spendthrifts, they might have as officers adventurers who exploited the poor puffed-up patriots they caught in the meshes of their sophistries and vanity of their habits, but, after all, their ideal was too noble to cast aside just for money alone. "Must--must this curator be a Spaniard?" I cried, stretching out my hands. "He must," came the inexorable answer. "Then I am deeply honoured by the trouble you have taken, the kindly interest you have shown in me," I replied slowly, "but the thing is frankly impossible--I cannot give up my nationality at a word in the the way you stipulate." There was a sudden shout, so loud that it sent me staggering backward with my hands pressed closely to the drums of my ears. The Cardinal-Archbishop appeared to bound from his throne like a man who had been shot, and once again, as something soft, diaphanous, and white was waved in front of me, I caught the sickly, sticky smell of chloroform, which overpowered me so quickly that almost as soon as it reached me I dropped to a lounge like a man dead with sleep.