I said.

Taltavull's lean face was gloomy and threatening that evening. He told
me that his correspondent in Palma had been arrested.

"The poor man's only crime was that of spreading our propaganda," said
he, "and his only real enemies were the swarming priests. He naturally
spurned their warnings with contempt, as every true anarchist must do,
and continued sowing the good seed amongst his Roman Catholic
neighbours. And so the Bishop went to the Captain-General, and our
Cause was given another martyr."

"Sad," said Haigh, "isn't it?"

"I shall write them a fair warning," continued Taltavull, with a frown,
"and if the poor fellow is not instantly released I shall give orders
to blow up the Cathedral, the _Lonja_, and the Moorish palace
where the Captain-General resides. I do not think that they will press
matters to extremes after that. The Cathedral is one of the finest
specimens of Gothic ecclesiastical architecture extant in the Spanish
dominions; the Exchange is certainly the finest piece of Gothic secular
work in the world; and the old Saracen palace is a thing these
miserable _bourgeois_ set immense store upon. It would be a
tremendous blow to take them away, but if they press me I shall not
spare the lesson. I've already wired our head office in Barcelona for a
consignment of dynamite."

"I wish you hadn't such confoundedly destructive notions, old chappie,"
said Haigh. "It's the one drawback to you as a companion. Good-night,
and give me a day's warning when you're going to blow anything
up!--Good-night, Cospatric--or, rather, good-morning."

CHAPTER XIV.

HEREINGEFALLEN!

It did not seem that I had been very long turned in when Haigh came to
my bedroom and woke me.

"Come across to my room," said he, "and see our anarchist shipmate in
the process of going crazy."

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, sitting up.

"I don't quite know whether I mean what I say, but anyway, come and see
for yourself."

So I flung off the quilted coverlet, and pattered over the tiled floor
on my bare feet, and across the corridor, and saw the anarchist dressed
in his long black frockcoat, and apparently in nothing else. He was
dancing with fury, reeling out a continuous string of the most venomous
Spanish oaths--which, by a peculiar irony of a man of his creed, are
drawn almost exclusively from an ecclesiastical basis--and at intervals
pounding with one bony fist at a crumpled letter which lay in the palm
of t