l. The whole
arrangement of that part of the plot is admirable. The band of robbers
are disguised as priests, and officiate, without being found out.

_Barnstaple_. But isn't that rather sacrilegious?

_Ansard_. No; it appears so to be, but he gives his reasons for his
behaviour to the pope, and the pope is satisfied, and not only gives him
his blessing, but shows him the greatest respect.

_Barnstaple_. They must have been very weighty reasons.

_Ansard_. And therefore they are not divulged.

_Barnstaple_. That is to say, not until the end of the work.

_Ansard_. They are never divulged at all; I leave a great deal to the
reader's imagination--people are fond of conjecture. All they know is,
that he boldly appears, and demands an audience. He is conducted in,
the interview is private, after a sign made by our hero, and at which
the pope almost leaps off the chair. After an hour he comes out again,
and the pope bows him to the very door. Every one is astonished, and,
of course, almost canonise him.

_Barnstaple_. That's going it rather strong in a Catholic country. But
tell me, Ansard, what is your plot?

_Ansard_. Plot; I have none.

_Barnstaple_. No plot!

_Ansard_. No plot, and all plot. I puzzle the reader with certain
materials. I have castles and dungeons, corridors and creaking doors,
good villains and bad villains. Chain armour and clank of armour,
daggers for gentlemen, and stilettoes for ladies. Dark forests and
brushwood, drinking scenes, eating scenes, and sleeping scenes--robbers
and friars, purses of gold and instruments of torture, an incarnate
devil of a Jesuit, a handsome hero, and a lovely heroine. I jumble them
all together, sometimes above, and sometimes underground, and I explain
nothing at all.

_Barnstaple_. Have you nothing supernatural?

_Ansard_. O yes! I've a dog whose instinct is really supernatural, and
I have two or three visions, which may be considered so, as they tell
what never else could have been known. I decorate my caverns and
dungeons with sweltering toads and slimy vipers, a constant dropping of
water, with chains too ponderous to lift, but which the parties upon
whom they are riveted, clang together as they walk up and down in their
cells, and soliloquise. So much for my underground scenery. Above, I
people the halls with pages and ostrich feathers, and knights in bright
armour, a constant supply of generous wine, and goblets too heavy to