The aureole of a martyr is worth more than to enter a dungeon a man and come out of it a limp rag.

I am very ill, Esteban, my sentence is irrevocable.

I have no stomach left, my lungs are gone, and this body that you see is like a dislocated machine that can hardly move, creaking in every joint, as though all the bits intended to fall apart.

The Virgin who saved me at your recommendation might really have interceded a little more in my favour, softening my jailors.

Those wretches think to save the world by giving free rein to those wild beast instincts that slumber in us all, relics of a far-away past.