at the
sorceress was struck on the back a certain number of blows with a
shovel; but I do not venture to affirm this, for I was absent at the
moment when this hideous procession passed before my windows.

We thus see, however, what sort of spectacles were given to the people
in the commencement of the nineteenth century, in one of the principal
towns of Spain, the seat of a celebrated university, and the native
country of numerous citizens distinguished by their knowledge, their
courage, and their virtues. Let not the friends of humanity and of
civilization disunite; let them form, on the contrary, an indissoluble
union, for superstition is always on the watch, and waits for the moment
again to seize its prey.

I have mentioned in the course of my narrative that two Carthusians
often left their convent in the _Desierto de las Palmas_, and came,
though prohibited, to see me at my station, situated about two hundred
metres higher. A few particulars will give an idea of what certain monks
were, in the Peninsula, in 1807.

One of them, Father Trivulce, was old; the other was very young. The
former, of French origin, had played a part at Marseilles, in the
counter-revolutionary events of which this town was the theatre, at the
commencement of our first revolution. His part had been a very active
one; one might see the proof of this in the scars of sabre cuts which
furrowed his breast. It was he who was the first to come. When he saw
his young comrade march up, he hid himself; but as soon as the latter
had fully entered into conversation with me, Father Trivulce showed
himself all at once. His appearance had the effect of Medusa's head.
"Reassure yourself," said he to his young compeer; "only let us not
denounce each other, for our prior is not a man to pardon us for having
come here and infringed our vow of silence, and we should both receive a
punishment, the recollection of which would long remain." The treaty was
at once concluded, and from that day forward the two Carthusians came
very often to converse with me.

The youngest of our two visitors was an Aragonian, his family had made
him a monk against his will. He related to me one day, before M. Biot,
(then returned from Tarragon, where he had taken refuge to get cured of
his fever,) some particulars which, according to him, proved that in
Spain there was no longer more than the ghost of religion. These details
were mostly borrowed from the secrets of confession. M.