came from, and learnt that making them was one of the favourite occupations of the Mexican nuns, who keep their brethren in the monasteries well supplied. At last the good monk went away to his duties and left us, when I could not resist the temptation of having a look at the little books in blue and green paper covers which were lying on the table with the sweetmeat-bowls and the venerable old missal. They proved to be all French novels done into Spanish, and “Notre-Dame de Paris” was lying open (under a sheet of paper); so I conclude that our visit had interrupted the sub-prior while deep in that improving work.
Presently a monk came to conduct us down into the refectory, and there they gave us an uncommonly good supper of wonderful Mexican stews, red-hot as usual, and plenty of good Spanish wine withal. The great dignitaries of the cloister did not appear, but some fifteen or twenty monks were at table with us, and never tired of questioning us—exactly in the same fashion that the ladies of the harem questioned Doña Juana. We delighted them with stories of the miraculous Easter fire at Jerusalem, and the illumination of St. Peter’s, of the Sistine chapel and the Pope, and we parted for the night in high good humour.