heaven--true Eden life, as the Germans would say,--pitching your tent
under the pleasant hedgerow, listening to the song of the feathered
tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering
and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your
brow--making ten holes--hey, what's this? what's the man crying for?

* * * * *

'Did you speak, Don Jorge?' demanded the archbishop.

'That is a fine brilliant on your lordship's hand,' said I.

'You are fond of brilliants, Don Jorge,' said the archbishop, his
features brightening up; 'vaya! so am I; they are pretty things. Do you
understand them?'

'I do,' said I, 'and I never saw a finer brilliant than your own, one
excepted; it belonged to an acquaintance of mine, a Tartar Khan. He did
not bear it on his finger, however; it stood in the frontlet of his
horse, where it shone like a star. He called it Daoud Scharr, which,
being interpreted, meaneth light of war.'

'Vaya!' said the archbishop, 'how very extraordinary! I am glad you are
fond of brilliants, Don Jorge. Speaking of horses, reminds me that I
have frequently seen you on horseback. Vaya! how you ride! It is
dangerous to be in your way.'

'Is your lordship fond of equestrian exercise?'

'By no means, Don Jorge; I do not like horses. It is not the practice of