When I awake, I examine carefully the lining
of my panama, and the ferule end of my walking-stick, to satisfy myself
that no burglarious bruja has taken advantage of my repose to tamper
with my property. But whether it is that my stick and hat are of no
great value, or that the defences of our studio are impregnable, no
bruja has offered to take 'charge' of these things by labelling them
with their infernal tickets.

My partner, to whom I record the events of the day, is of opinion that
if all models are as difficult to secure as La Perpetua, we had better
abandon our researches in this direction, and abide by our street criers
and mendicants. He also suggests a little landscape-painting by way of
variety, and, with this object in view, we plan certain walking
expeditions into the surrounding country. What subjects for landscape
pictures we meet with, and whether or not we are more successful in our
quest after inanimate nature, will be told in another chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.

A TASTE OF CUBAN PRISON-LIFE.

Two Views of the Morro Castle--The Commandant--The Town Jail--Cuban
Policemen--Prisoners--A Captive Indian--Prison Fare--A Court of
Justice--A Trial--A Verdict.

I dream that I am Silvio Pellico, that the prisoner of St. Helena is my
fellow-captive, and that an apartment belonging to the Spanish
Inquisition is our dormitory. Clasps of iron eat their way into our
ankles and wrists; gigantic rats share our food; our favourite exercise
is swinging head downwards in the air, and our chief recreation is to
watch the proceedings of tame spiders.

I awake and find my bed unusually hard. My bed-clothes have vanished,
and in their stead are a couple of hard benches, with my wearing apparel
rolled up for a pillow. By a dim light I observe that my apartment is
remarkably small, bare, damp, and dome-shaped. The window is a barred
aperture in the door; is only a foot square, and looks on to the patio,
or narrow passage, where unlimited wall stares me in the face. Do I
still dream, or is this actually one of 'le mie prigioni'? I rub my eyes
for a third time, and look about the semi-darkened vault. Somebody is
snoring. I gaze in the direction whence the sound proceeds, and observe
indistinctly an object huddled together in a corner. So, this is no
dream, after all; and that heap of sleeping humanity is not Napoleon,
but my companion, Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu.

We are both shut up in one of the subter