“Who are you, where is your passport, and what brings you to Finisterre?”
_Myself_.—I am an Englishman. Here is my passport, and I came to see Finisterre.
This reply seemed to discomfit them for a moment. They looked at each other, then at my passport. At length the _alcalde_, striking it with his finger, bellowed forth:
“This is no Spanish passport; it appears to be written in French.”
_Myself_.—I have already told you that I am a foreigner. I of course carry a foreign passport.
_Alcalde_.—Then you mean to assert that you are not _Calros Rey_.
_Myself_.—I never heard before of such a king, nor indeed of such a name.
_Alcalde_.—Hark to the fellow! he has the audacity to say that he has never heard of Calros the pretender, who calls himself king.
_Myself_.—If you mean by Calros, the pretender Don Carlos, all I can reply is, that you can scarcely be serious. You might as well assert that yonder poor fellow, my guide, whom I see you have made prisoner, is his nephew, the _Infante_ Don Sebastian. { 29}
_Alcalde_.—See, you have betrayed yourself; that is the very person we suppose him to be.
_Myself_.—It is true that they are both hunchbacks. But how can I be like Don Carlos? I have nothing the appearance of a Spaniard, and am nearly a foot taller than the pretender.
_Alcalde_.—That makes no difference; you of course carry many waistcoats about you, by means of which you disguise yourself, and appear tall or low according to your pleasure.
This last was so conclusive an argument that I had of course nothing to reply to it. The _alcalde_ looked around him in triumph, as if he had made some notable discovery. “Yes, it is Calros; it is Calros,” said the crowd at the door. “It will be as well to have these men shot instantly,” continued the _alcalde_; “if they are not the two pretenders, they are at any rate two of the factious.”
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,” said a gruff voice.
The _justicia_ of Finisterre turned their eyes in the direction from which these words proceeded, and so did I. Our glances rested upon the figure who held watch at the door. He had planted the barrel of his musket on the floor, and was now leaning his chin against the butt.
“I am by no means certain that they are either one or the other,” repeated he, advancing forward. “I have been examining this man,” pointing to myself, “and listening whilst he spoke, and it appears to me that after all he may prove an Englishman; he has their very look and voice. Who knows the English better than Antonio de la Trava, and who has a better right? Has he not sailed in their ships; has he not eaten their biscuit; and did he not stand by Nelson when he was shot dead?”