ones and plaster, forming a barrier more solid in appearance than
reality. This barrier had recently been knocked down; its materials lay
scattered on the ground, and through the opening thus made, came the
only light that was allowed to enter the vault. It proceeded from the
cell in which Paco, the muleteer, had for more than a month been
imprisoned.

Long, very long and wearisome, had that month of captivity appeared to
Paco. Accustomed to a life of constant activity and change, it would
have been difficult to devise for him a severer punishment than inaction
and confinement. The first day he passed in tolerable tranquillity of
mind, occupied by vain endeavours to conjecture the motives of the
violence offered to him, and momentarily anticipating his release; and
although evening came without its taking place, he went to sleep, fully
convinced that the next morning would be the term of his durance.
Conscious of no crime, ignorant of Count Villabuena's death, and of Don
Baltasar's designs, he was totally unable to assign a reason for his
imprisonment. The next morning came, the bolts of his dungeon-door were
withdrawn; he started from his pallet. The door opened, and a man
entered, bringing a supply of fresh water and a meagre gaspacho. This he
laid down; and was leaving the cell without replying to Paco's indignant
and loudly-uttered interrogatories; when the muleteer followed, and
attempted to force his way out. He was met by a stern "Back!" and the
muzzle of a cocked blunderbuss touched his breast. A sturdy convent
servitor barred the passage, and compelled him to retreat into his
prison.

Paco now gave free course to his impatience. During the whole of that
day he paced his cell with the wild restlessness of a newly-caged
panther; the gaspacho remained untasted, but the water-jug was quickly
drained, for his throat was dry with cursing. The next morning another
visit, another gaspacho and supply of water, and another attempt to
leave the prison, repulsed like the previous one. On the third day,
however, his hopes of a prompt liberation having melted away before the
dogged silence and methodical regularity of his jailers, Paco began to
cast about in his mind for means of liberating himself. First he shook
and examined the door, but he might as well have attempted to shake the
Pyrenees; its thick hard wood and solid fastenings mocked his efforts,
and moreover he had no instruments, not so much as a rusty nail, to ai