To celebrate the unhoped-for arrival of _una onza de oro_, M. Berthémie
and I had procured an immense dish of potatoes. The ordnance officer of
the Emperor was already devouring it with his eyes, when a Moroccan, who
was making his ablutions near us with one of his companions,
accidentally filled it with dirt. M. Berthémie could not control his
anger; he darted upon the clumsy Mussulman, and inflicted upon him a
rough punishment.

I remained a passive spectator of the combat, until the second Moroccan
came to the aid of his compatriot. The party no longer being equal, I
also took part in the conflict by seizing the new assailant by the
beard. The combat ceased at once, because the Moroccan would not raise
his hand against a man who could write a petition so rapidly. This
conflict, like the struggles of which I had often been a witness outside
the barriers of Paris, had originated in a dish of potatoes.

The Spaniards always cherished the idea that the ship and her cargo
might be confiscated; a commission came from Girone to question us. It
was composed of two civil judges and one inquisitor. I acted as
interpreter. When M. Berthémie's turn came, I went to fetch him, and
said to him, "Pretend that you can only talk Styrian, and be at ease; I
will not compromise you in translating your answers."

It was done as we had agreed; unfortunately the language spoken by M.
Berthémie had but little variety, and the _sacrement der Teufel_, which
he had learnt in Germany, when he was aide-de-camp to Hautpoul,
predominated too much in his discourse. Be that as it may, the judges
observed that there was too great a conformity between his answers and
those which I had made myself, to render it necessary to continue an
interrogatory, which I may say, by the way, disturbed me much. The wish