Volume 3 — Translated from the Spanish. PERICO THE SAD; OR, THE ALVAREDA FAMILY.

CHAPTER XIII.

A tempestuous night covered the sky with flying clouds, which were rushing further on to discharge their torrents. Sometimes they separated in their flight, and the moon appeared between them, mild and tranquil, like a herald of concord and peace in the midst of the strife.

In the short intervals, during which this placid light illumined earth and heaven, a pale and emaciated man might have been seen making his way along a solitary road. The uncertainty of his manner, his apprehensive eyes, and the agitation of his face, would have shown clearly that he was a fugitive.

A fugitive indeed! for he fled from inhabited places; fled from his fellow-men; fled from human justice; fled from himself and from his own conscience. This man was an assassin, and no one who had seen him fleeing, as the clouds above were fleeing before the invisible force which pursued them, would have recognized the honorable man, the obedient son, the loving husband and devoted father of a few days since, in this miserable being, now fallen under the irremissible sentence of the law of expiation.

Yes, this man was Perico, not seeking a peace now and for ever lost, but fleeing from the present and in dread of the future.

He had passed days of despair and nights of horror in the most solitary places, sustaining himself on acorns and roots; shrinking from the light of day, which accused, and from the eyes of men, that condemned him. But no darkness could hide the images that were always before him, no silence awe their clamors. His unhappy sister; his disconsolate mother; the bereaved old man, his father's friend, haunted his vision; the reprobation of his honorable race oppressed his soul; and more appalling than all these, the solemn, mournful, and warning note of the passing bell, which he had heard calling to Heaven for mercy upon his victim, sounded continually in his ears. In vain pride insinuated, through its most seductive organ, worldly honor, that he had, and that not to vindicate himself would have been a reproach; that the injuries were greater than the reprisal.

A voice which the cries of passion had silenced, but which became more distinct and more severe in proportion as they, like all that is human, sank and failed--the eternal voice of conscience, said to him, "O that thou hadst never done it!"

There came, borne upon the wind, an extraordinary sound, now hoarser, now failing and fainter, as the gusts were more or less powerful. What could it be? Everything terrifies the guilty soul. Was it the roar of the wind, the pipe of an organ, or a voice of lamentation? The nearer Perico approached it, the more inexplicable it seemed. The road the unhappy man was following led toward the point from whence the sound proceeded. He reaches it, and his terror is at his height when, unable to distinguish anything--for a black cloud has covered the moon--he hears directly above his bead the portentous wail, so sad, so vague, so awful!

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At this moment the clouds are broken, and over all the moonlight falls, clear and silvery, like a mantle of transparent snow. Every object comes out of the mystery of shadows. He sees reija asleep in its valley like a white bird in its nest. He lifts his eyes to discover the cause of the sound. O horror! Upon five posts he sees five human heads! From these proceed the doleful lamentation, a warning from the dead to the living. [Footnote 185]

Perico starts back aghast, and perceives, for the first time, that he is not alone. A man is standing near one of the posts. He is tall and vigorous, and his bearing is manly and erect. He is dressed richly after the manner of contrabandists. His bronzed face is hard, bold, and calm. He holds his hat in his hand, inclining uncovered before these posts of ignominy a head which never was uncovered in human respect; for it is that of an outlaw, of a man who has broken all ties with society, and respects nothing in the world. But this man, although impious, believes in God, and although criminal, is a Christian, and is praying.

When from an energetic and indomitable nature, emancipated from all restrain, there issue a few drops of adoration, as water oozes from a rock, what do you call it unbelievers? Is it superstitious fear? To this man fear is a word without a meaning. Is it hypocrisy? Only the heads of five dead men witness it. Is it moral weakness? He has strength of soul unknown in society, where all lean upon something; he stands alone. Is it a remembrance of infancy, a tribute to the mother who taught him to pray?

There exists no such memory for the abandoned orphan, who grew up among the savage bulls he guarded.

What is it then that bends his neck and detains him to pray in the presence of the dead?

After some moments the man concluded his prayer, replaced his hat, and turning to Perico said,

"Where are you going, sir?"

Perico neither wished nor was able to answer. A vertigo had seized him.

"Where are you going, I say?" again asked the unknown.

Perico remained silent.

"Are you dumb?" proceeded the questioner, "or is it because you do not choose to answer? If it is the last," he added, pointing to his gun, "here is a mouth which obtains replies when mine fails."

Perico's situation rendered him too desperate for reflection, and the brand of cowardice which had been stamped upon his forehead, still burned like a recent mark of the ignominious iron. He therefore answered instantly, seizing his firelock.

"And here is another that replies in the tone in which it is questioned."

The intentions of the unknown were not hostile, nor had he any idea of carrying out his threat, though he did not lack the courage to do it. Another so daring as he did not tread the soil of Andalucia. But the arrogance of the poor worn youth pleased instead of offending him.

"Comrade," he said, "I always like to take off my hat before drawing my sword, but it suits me to know with whom I speak and whom I meet on the road. You must have courage to be walking here; for they say that Diego and his band are in this neighborhood, and you know, for all Spain knows, who Diego is; where he puts his eye he puts his ball. The leaves tremble upon the trees at sight of him, and the dead in their graves at the sound of his name."

All this was said without that Andalucian boastfulness, so grotesquely exaggerated in these days, but with the naturalness of conviction, and the serenity of one who states a simple truth.

"What do I care for Diego and his band?" exclaimed Perico, not with bravado, but with the most profound dejection.

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As with failing voice he pronounced these words, he tottered and leaned his head upon his gun.

"What has taken you? What is the matter?" asked the stranger, noticing his weakness.

Perico did not reply, for so great was his exhaustion and such the effect of his recent emotions that he fell down senseless.

The unknown knelt down beside him and lifted his head. The moon shone full upon that face, beautiful notwithstanding its mortal paleness, and the traces of passion, anguish, and grief which marred it.

"He is dead," said the stranger to himself, placing his rough hand upon Perico's heart. The heart which, a few days before, was as pure as the sky of May. "No," he continued, "he is not dead, but will die here, like a dog, if he is not taken care of."

And he looked at him again, for he felt awakening in his heart that noble attraction which draws the strong toward the weak, the powerful toward the helpless; for let skeptics say what they will, there is a spark of divinity in the breast of every human creature. He rose to his feet and whistled.

He is answered by the sound of a brisk gallop, and a beautiful young horse, with arched neck and rolling mane, comes up and stops before his master, turning his fine head and brilliant eyes as if to offer him the stirrup.

The unknown raises the inanimate Perico in his robust arms, throws him across the horse, springs up beside him, presses his knees gently to the animal's flanks, and the noble creature darts away, gayly and lightly, as if unconscious of the double weight.

CHAPTER XIV.

In a solitary hostel, standing like a beggar beside the highway, the innkeeper and his wife were seated before their fire, in the dull tranquillity of persons as accustomed to the alternations of noisy life by day and complete isolation by night as the inhabitants of marshy places are to their intermittent fevers.

"May evil light on that hard-skulled sailor who took it into his head that there must be a new world, and never stopped till he ran against it," said the woman. "Had not the king already cities enough in this? What good has it done? Taken our sons off there, and sent us the epidemic. Do say, Andres, and don't sit sleeping there like a mole, if it has been of any other use."

"Yes, wife, yes," answered the innkeeper, half' opening his eyes, "the silver comes from there."

"Plague take the silver!" exclaimed the woman.

"And the tobacco," added the husband, slowly and lazily, again closing his eyes,

"A curse upon the tobacco!" said the wife angrily. "Do you think, you unfeeling father, that the silver or the tobacco are worth the lives they cost and the tears? Son of my soul! God knows what will become of him in that land where they kill men like chinches, and where everything is venomous, even the air!"

They heard at this moment a peculiar whistle. The innkeeper, springing to his feet, caught up the light and ran toward the door, exclaiming, "The captain!"

As he presented himself on the threshold, the rays of the lamp fell upon a man on horseback, with another man that looked like a corpse lying across the horse in front of him.

"Help me take this fellow down," said the rider, in the rough tone of a man of few words.

The innkeeper handed the lamp to his wife, who had approached, and made haste to obey.

"Mercy to us! A dead man!" said she. "For the love of the Blessed Mother, sir, do not leave him in our house!"

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"He is not dead," said the horseman, "he is sick; nurse him up--that is what women ore good for. Here is money to pay for the cure."

Saying this, he threw down a piece of gold, and disappeared, the resounding and measured gallop of his horse dying away gradually in the distance.

"If this is not a cool proceeding!" grumbled Martha. "What will you bet that he, with his own hands, has not put the man in this state? and he takes himself off and leaves him on ours! 'You cure him!' as if it were nothing to cure a man who is dead or dying! As if this inn were an hospital! The bully thinks he has only to command, as if he were the king!"

"Hush!" exclaimed the innkeeper, alarmed, "will you be still, long-tongue! Talk that way of Diego! Women are the very devil! What is the use of grumbling, since you know there is nothing for it but to do as these people tell us! Besides, this is a work of charity, so let's be about it."

They prepared, as well as they could, a bed in a garret.

"He has no sign of blow or wound," said Andres, as he was undressing the patient; "so you see, wife, it is a sickness like any other."

"Look, look, Andres!" exclaimed Martha; "he has the scapular of our Lady of Carmel around his neck."

And as if the sight or influence of the blessed object had awakened in her all the gentle sentiments of Christian humility, or as if the sacred precept, "Thy neighbor as thyself," uttered by the brotherhood in united devotion, had resounded clearly, she began to exclaim: "You were right, Andres, it is a work of charity to assist him, poor fellow! How young he is, and how forsaken! His poor mother! Come, come, Andres, what are you doing, standing there like a post? Go! hurry! bring me some wine to rub his temples; and kill a hen, for I am going to make him some broth."

"So it is," soliloquized Andres, as he went out--"at first, wouldn't have him in the house; now she will turn the house out of the windows for him. That's the way with women. It is hard to understand them."

On the following night, a man of evil face and repugnant aspect came to the inn. This man had been in the penitentiary, and was nicknamed the convict.

"God be with you, sir," said the innkeeper, with more fear than cordiality, "what might be your pleasure?"

"A whim of the captain's, curse him! for haven't I come to ask after the sick, like the porter of a convent?"

"He is not doing very well," answered the innkeeper; "he is in a raging fever, is out of his mind, and talks of a murder he has done--of dead men's heads."

"Ho! so then he is a man that can handle arms," said the convict. "Let's have a look at him."

They mounted to the garret, and the innkeeper continued:

"All day long I have been in a cold sweat with fear. There have been people in the house, and even soldiers--if they had heard him!"

The convict, who had been examining the delicate and wasted form of Perico, interrupted with a movement of disdain.

"Well, if he makes too much noise for you, quarter him upon the king." [Footnote 186]

"No, indeed!" cried Martha, "poor unfortunate! I have a son in America who may be at this very hour in the same condition, abandoned by every one, and calling, as this one calls, for his mother. No, no, sir, we shall not desert him. Neither Our Lady, whose scapular he wears, nor I."

"Buy him sweetmeats," said the convict, and went down.

"What news?' he asked of the innkeeper.

"They say that a reward is to be offered for Diego's head."

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"What?" asked the convict again, with quick and unusual interest. The innkeeper repeated what he had said. The convict considered a moment, and then continued,

"Where do they think we are?"

"Near Despenaperros."

"Are they after us?"

"Yes, there is a cavalry company at Sevilla, one of infantry at Cordoba, and another of the mountain soldiery at Utrera."

"There will be some shoes worn out before they see our faces, and if they do get to see them it will cost them dear."

"Yes, yes," Andres replied; "we know that whoever puts himself in Diego's way may as well look for his grave; but then--there may be so many of them . . ."

"Perhaps you would like to get a crack of my fist on your bugle?" said the bandit.

"Not at all," said Andres, retreating a step or two.

"Put more ballast in your tongue then--and hurry up with the bread --quick now!"

Andres hastened to obey. The bandit was going away when he heard Martha's voice calling after him.

"It slipped my mind--you take this money," she said, handing him the piece of gold. "Give it to the captain, and tell him that what I do for this lad I do for charity, and not for interest."

"I shall be sure to give him such a reason. He accepts 'No' neither when he says give, nor when he says take; but to settle it between you, I will keep the money;" and setting spurs to his horse, he disappeared.

"You have done a wise thing!" said the innkeeper impatiently. "Will the money, you foolish good-for-nothing, be better in the hands of that big thief than in ours? Women!--ill hap to them! Only the devil understands them."

"I understand myself and God understands me," said the good woman, returning to the garret.

CHAPTER XI.

The care of the innkeeper's wife and the youth and robust constitution of Perico vanquished the fever. At the end of a fortnight he was able to rise.

Perico evinced all his gratitude to Martha in a manner more heartfelt than fluent.

"You must not thank me" said the good woman, "for truly, the face I put on when I saw you brought was not one of welcome; but I have taken a liking to you because I see that you are a good son and a good Christian."

Perico hung his head in deep grief and humiliation. His physical weakness had deadened in him the blind and furious impulse which had exalted him, as such impulse does sometimes exalt gentle and timid natures to a point past the limit which strong-minded and even violent men respect.

All that effervescence which caused such a surging of his passions, as gas causes the juice of the grape to ferment, had ceased, as the foam subsides upon the wine, leaving reflection, which, without diminishing the greatness of his wrongs, condemned his method of redressing them.

All the horror which the future inspired returned to Perico with returning strength, and it was not lessened when Andres, taking the occasion one day when his wife was about her work, said to him:

"My friend, now that you are recovered you must seek your living somewhere else, for--the more friendship, the more frankness, sir--when you were out of your head you talked of a murder you had committed. If it is true, and they find you here, we shall suffer for it, and that will not be right; the just ought not to pay for sinners; well-regulated charity, let Martha, who pretends to know better, say what she will, begins at home. Nobody but that pumpkin-headed wife of mine is capable of sustaining that Christian charity begins with one's neighbor. As to me, I tell you the truth, I want nothing to do with justice, for she has a heavy hand."

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Perico did not reply, but went with tearful eyes to take leave of Martha. The good soul felt his departure, for she had become fond of him. The memory of her son had attached Martha to the unfortunate young man, and the memory of his own mother had drawn Perico toward the woman who acted toward him a mother's part.

He took his gun, and was going out when he met the convict.

"Which way?" said the robber. "Do you clear out in this fashion, without so much as May God reward you! to the compassionate soul who picked you up? This isn't the right thing, comrade. Besides, where can you go hereabouts? Are you in a hurry to be put in the lock-up?"

Perico remained silent; he neither thought nor reasoned--had no will of his own. "Courage! and come along," proceeded the convict. "Here we are taking more trouble to help you than you will take to let yourself be helped." Perico followed him mechanically.

"Look, Martha," said Andres, seeing Perico at a distance in company with the robber, "look at your pet--and what a jewel he is, to be sure! There he goes with the convict."

"And what of it?" responded Martha. "I tell you, Andres, that he is a good son and a good Christian."

"An impostor and a vagabond, that has eaten up my hens--and you see where he is going, and yet say that he is good! The devil only understands women!"

Perico and the convict, making their way through thickets and difficult places, came at last to an elevation, upon which stood the captain leaning on his gun, and guarding the slumbers of eight men, who were lying around him on the slope. Near him grazed his beautiful horse, which lifted its head from time to time to regard its master.

"Here is this young man," said the convict as they drew near.

Without changing his position, the captain slowly turned his eyes and examined the new arrival from head to foot. His scrutiny finished, he asked,

"Are you a fugitive from justice?"

Perico inclined his head, but did not answer.

"There is no cause for fear," proceeded his questioner, and presently, in brief phrases, added,

"Men have fatal hours, and of these some are as red as blood and some as black as darkness itself. One is enough to destroy a man, and turn his heart to a stone which has neither pulse nor feeling, only weight. He remains lost, for the past is past, and there is nothing to do but bear it with pluck. Life is a fight, in which one must look before him, like a brave man, and not behind, like a poltroon."

"I cannot do it," exclaimed Perico vehemently. "If you knew--"

The captain, with an imperative gesture, extended his arm to silence him, and continued.

"Here, each one carries his own secrets within himself, a sealed packet, without awakening in the others either curiosity or interest. If you have nowhere to go, stay with us; here we defend all we have left, our life. Mine I do not guard because I value it, but to keep it from the headsman."

"But you rob?" said Perico.

"We must do something," responded the bandit, returning, like a tortoise, into his hard and impenetrable shell.

Perico neither accepted nor refused the proposition, he remained without volition, an inert body; chance disposed of his wretched existence, as the winds dispose of the dry and heavy sands of the desert.

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CHAPTER XVI.

But while Perico, after the occurrences which we have related, was dragging out a miserable existence among a band of criminals, what became of the other individuals of this family? To what extremes had they been carried by resentment, grief, despair, and revenge?

Pedro, from the fatal day on which he lost his son, had shut himself in his own house with his sorrow. The parish priest and some of his friends went from time to time to keep him company--not to console him, that was impossible, but to talk with him about his trouble, like those who relieve vessels of the bitter water of the sea, not to right them but to keep them from sinking. They had tried to persuade him to renew his intercourse with the family of Perico, but without success.

"No, no," he would answer on such occasions. "I have forgiven him before God and men; but have to do with his people as though it had not been, I cannot."

"Pedro, Pedro, that is not forgiveness," said the priest. "It is the letter but not the spirit of the law."

"Father," replied the poor man, "God does not ask what is impossible."

"No, but what he requires is possible."

"Sir, you want me to be a saint, and I am not one; it is enough for me to be a good Christian, and forgive. Have I molested them? Have I sought justice? What more can I do?"

"Pedro, returning good for evil, wise men walk in peace."

"Mercy, mercy, father! why shave so close as to lay bare the brains? God help and favor them; but each in his own house, and God with us all."

Maria had hidden herself with her daughter in the retirement of her cottage, covering the despair and shame of the latter with the sacred mantle of maternal love, her only refuge from the unanimous disapproval and condemnation which she justly merited. The unfortunate victims, Anna and Elvira, remained alone, but sustained in their immense affliction by their religion and their conscience. Many months passed in this way. At length two Capuchins came to the village to hold a mission. These missions were instituted for the conversion of the wicked, the awakening of the luke-warm, the encouragement of the good, and the consolation of the sorrowful.

The missionaries preached at night, and the church was filled with people who came to hear the word of God, which teaches men to be pious and humble.

The good Maria succeeded in persuading her daughter to go to the missions, and Rita, hard, bitter, and selfish, in her shame and desperation, found in them repentance, with tears for the past, penance and humiliation for the present, and for the future the divine hand, which lifts the fallen one, who, bathed in tears, and prostrate in ashes, implores its help. One night the subject of the sermon was the forgiveness of injuries. Magnificent theme! Holy and sublime beyond all others! The earnest preacher knew how to improve it, and the believing people how to understand it.

At the conclusion the good missionary knelt before the crucifix, and with fervent zeal and ardent charity promised the Lord of mercy, in the name of that multitude kneeling at his feet, that on the succeeding night there should not be in the temple a single hard and unreconciled heart. A burst of exclamations and tears confirmed the promise of the devoted apostle.

The day which followed was one of peace and love, according to the spirit of the evangel. The most deeply-rooted enmities were ended; the most irreconcilable foes embraced each other in the streets; the angels in heaven had cause for rejoicing.

Pedro went to see Anna. Terrible to the unhappy man was the entering into that house. He approached Anna and embraced her in silence. The afflicted mother shook, and tried in vain to overcome her emotion. But when Pedro turned toward Elvira, as she stood wringing her thin hands, worn to a shadow and bathed in tears--when {794} he pressed to his paternal heart her whom he had looked upon and loved as a daughter, all his grief broke forth in the cry: "Daughter! daughter! you and I loved him!"

Rita, also, went to Anna's to beg for that which Pedro went to carry. When she found herself in the presence of the mother-in-law she had outraged, she fell upon her knees. "I," she exclaimed, beating her breast, "have been the cause of all! I have not come to ask a forgiveness I do not deserve, but to beg of you to reprimand without cursing me." When she turned to Elvira, it was not enough to remain on her knees, she bent her face to the floor, moaning amidst her sobs. "Since you are an angel, forgive!"

Maria supported her prostrate child, and implored Anna with her looks and tears. Anna and Elvira, without a word of reproach, raised and embraced her who had done so much to injure them; striving all they could from that day to reanimate her, for she was the most wretched of the three, because the guilty one.

All the people looked with charity upon the woman who had sincerely and publicly repented, for although the society called cultivated finds in religious demonstrations another cause for vituperation, adding to the condemnation of faults which it never forgets the reproach of hypocrisy upon those who turn to God, the people, more generous and more just, honor the open evidence of penitence and humiliation. Therefore, when they saw Rita abase herself and weep, their indignation was exchanged for compassion, and the epithet "infamous!" for the pitiful words "poor child!"

This was because the common people, though they know not what philanthropy means, know well, because religion teaches them, what is Christian charity.

CHAPTER XVII.

To Perico, the life into which he found himself drawn by necessity, and by the vigorous influence Diego exercised over him, was one of misery; Diego also had been drawn into a life of crime by a terrible misfortune; but having entered, he adopted it as a warrior does his iron armor, without heeding either its hardness or its oppressive weight. Perico followed his wicked companions while he detested them. He was like the silver fish of some peaceful inland lake which, caught by some fatal current, is carried away into the bitter and restless waters of the sea, where it agonizes without the power to escape. At times, when a crime was committed under his eyes, he wished in his desperation to end his torments at once, by giving himself up to justice; but shame, and want of energy to overcome it, held him back. The others hated him, and surnamed him "The Sad," but he was sustained by Diego's powerful protection. Diego felt attracted toward the man whose life he had saved, and who was, he felt, good and honest. For the rough and austere Diego was of a strong and noble nature that had not yet descended to the lowest grade of evil, which is hatred of the good.

In one of their raids, when the band had approached Tas Yentas, near Alocaz, a spy arrived in breathless haste from Utrera, telling them that a company of mountain soldiery had just left the latter place in the direction of Tas Yentas, informed of their whereabouts by some travellers they had lately pillaged.

They made haste to take refuge in an olive grove, but had hardly entered it when they were surprised by a troop of cavalry. A deadly contest then commenced, sustained by these men, who were fighting for their lives with terrible bravery.

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"Perico," said Diego, "now or never is the occasion to prove that you do not eat your bread without earning it. This is a fair fight. At them, if you are a man!"

On hearing these words, Perico, confused, and like a drunken man, threw himself in the way of the balls, firing upon the poor soldiers--men who were sacrificing everything for the good of society, which, in its egotism, does not even thank them; for it happens to them as to the confessors and doctors, who are laughed at in health, and anxiously called upon when there is any danger. One of the bandits was killed, two of the soldiers wounded, and a ball of Perico's, fired at a great distance, killed the commander of the troop. The consternation which followed this catastrophe gave the robbers an opportunity to escape. They fled beyond Utrera, passed through the haciendas of La Chaparra and Jesus-Maria, and arrived exhausted at nightfall in Valobrega. This valley, not far from Alcalá is surrounded by ridges and olive slopes. In the most retired part of it, on the margin of a brook, are still standing the ruins of a Moorish castle called Marchenilla. Men and horses threw themselves upon the turf at the base of these solitary ruins. They quenched their thirst in the brook, and when night set, in lighted a fire, and all except Diego and Perico lay down to sleep.

"An evil day, Corso," said Diego, caressing his horse, which lowered and then lifted his beautiful head as if to assent to his master's words, and say to him, "What matter since I have saved you?"

"I treat thee shamefully, my son," continued the chief, who loved his horse the more fondly because he loved no other creature. The horse, as if he had understood, neighed gaily, and, rising on his hind feet, balanced himself, and then dropped down upon all four beside his master, presenting his head to be caressed.

"What will become of thee if l am taken?" said the robber, leaning his head against the neck of the animal, which now stood motionless.

"Truly," said Diego, seating himself by the fire in front of Perico, "it is to you we owe our escape to-day with so little loss."

"To me?" asked Perico surprised.

"Yes," answered the captain; "the troop was commanded by a brave officer, who knew the country, and did not mean child's play. The son of the Countess of Villaoran. He would have given us work if you had not killed him."

"God have mercy on me!" exclaimed Perico, springing to his feet and raising his clasped hands to heaven. "What are you saying? The son of the countess was there, and I killed him?"

"What shocks you?" replied Diego.

"Perhaps you thought we were firing sugar-plums? Heavens!" he added impatiently, "you exasperate me! One would take you for a travelling player, with all your attitudes and extravagances. By all that's sacred, the convict is right. You missed your vocation; instead of choosing a life of freedom you should have turned friar. Come! keep watch," he added, wrapping himself in his mantle, and lying down with a stone under his head and his carbine between his knees.

His words were lost upon Perico. The unhappy man tore his hair and cursed himself in his despair. He had killed the son of the mistress and benefactress of his uncles, his own companion of childhood.

CHAPTER XVIII.

How vividly, during that gloomy night did the tranquil scenes of his lost domestic happiness present themselves to Perico! And for what had he exchanged them? His present frightful existence. All around him was motionless. He saw in the sad monotony of the night the changeless monotony of his misery; in the fire {796} burning before him, his consuming conscience; and in the cold and impenetrable obscurity beyond, his dark and cheerless future.

"Power of God!" he cried, "can I see and remember, and feel all this, and yet live?"

The red and wavering flame threw from time to time a glare of light across the strange wild forms of the ruins, presently leaving them in deep shadow, appearing to take refuge within, as a dying memory flashes up and then buries itself in the oblivion of the past. He heard his own breathing exaggerated by the silence, he saw horrible shapes in the obscurity. Fingers threatened him--eyes glared at him--reproachful voices accused him. And no, he was not mistaken, by the clearer light of the flames, now blown by the wind, he saw, beyond a remnant of wall, a pair of hard black eyes fixed upon him. Startled, and doubtful between the imaginary and the real, Perico did not know whether he ought to put himself under the protection of heaven, by making the sign of the cross, or to call for earthly help by giving the signal of alarm.

Before he could act, there came from behind the stone ruin a ruin of humanity; from behind the degradation of time, a wreck of human degradation--an old, filthy, and disgusting gipsy woman. The tint of the brown woollen skirts which covered her fleshless limbs blended with that of the ruin; she wore about her neck a kerchief, and over her faded locks a black cloth mantilla.

Perico was struck motionless as a stone, or as if the repulsive face had been that of the Medusa.

"Don't be uneasy," said the vision, approaching, "there is nothing to be afraid of. I have not come with bad motive, and you need not be on the watch. I knew that you were here, and have caused it to be rumored that you were making your way in the direction of the Sierra de Ronda, and that people had seen you near Espera and Villa-Martin."

"But why have you come here?" exclaimed Perico, instinctively alarmed at the aspect of the woman.

"To put you in the way of securing, at a stroke, a fortune that will last you your lifetime," she replied.

"That which you are likely to offer does not inspire much confidence," said Perico.

"Why should I wish to harm you?" said the gipsy; "and as to my looks, a poor cloak may cover a hail companion. I bring a treasure to your very hands; you have only to extend them."

"A treasure," said Perico, in whom the word, instead of exciting covetousness, only suggested the idea that the woman was mad, "a treasure, and where is it?"

The old wretch, who saw in the question only what she expected to find, avidity and thirst for gold, approached Perico as if she feared the breath of night might intercept her words, and the anathemas of heaven dissolve them in the air, and whispered in his ear, "In the church."

Perico, utterly shocked, gave a step backward, but recovering himself, rushed upon the woman like a tiger, and pushing her with all his might, exclaimed, "Go!"

"I will not go," she said, unintimidated; "I came to speak with the captain and the convict, and I will speak with them."

In his anguish lest she should do it, and to force her to go, Perico drew a dagger and flashed its shining blade in the firelight. The gipsy shrieked and the robbers woke.

"What is this?" shouted Diego; "what has happened? Perico, are you going to kill a woman?"

"No, no, I do not want to kill her, only to drive her away."

"And because," said the old woman, "I have come so far, through danger and fatigue, to put you in a way to leave this slavish life you are leading, like the Blond of Espera, who committed one robbery so great that he had enough to go beyond the seas and pass the rest of his days in comfort."

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The robbers grouped themselves around her; the convict presenting her with a fragment of the wall as a seat.

"Do not listen! do not listen!" cried Perico, beside himself; "she purposes a sacrilege!"

"Sir," said the convict to Diego, "oblige that agonizing priest to hold his tongue, he is like the dog in the manger. Let this good woman speak, and we shall know what she has to say--a regiment of horse couldn't silence that dismal screech-owl."

Diego hesitated, but finally turned toward the hag, and Perico, knowing then that hope was lost, for the bandit always followed his first impulses, rushed away, running hither and thither among the olives like a madman.

The gipsy had calculated everything, and her measures were well taken. The great advantages so exaggerated, the difficulties so easily overcome, the well-arranged precautions, upon which she amplified so largely, produced their effect. The temptation which offers flowers with one hand and with the other hides the thorns, convinced some and seduced others.

All the plans were settled, and the hours and signals agreed upon, and before the cocks, day's faithful sentinels, announced his coming, the band was on its way to the solitary hacienda of "El Cuervo," and the old witch crawling like a cunning and venomous snake to her den in the wood of Alcalá, where in the depths of the earth she had conceived the crime to which amidst darkness and ruins she had persuaded evil-doers--the crime which was to be perpetrated in the temple of God.

CHAPTER XIX.

Heavily passed the hours of the succeeding day to the idle guests of El Cuervo. All Perico's representations and prayers had failed to dissuade Diego from his impious design. Diego would never turn back; and this stupid tenacity in pursuing a course which he knew to be wrong, had cost him respect and honor, and was still to cost him liberty and life. It had, moreover, at the instigation of the convict, forced Perico, who had at last resolved to leave the band, to accompany it on this atrocious expedition--that vile man suggesting to Diego that there was no other means of preventing the saint from denouncing them.

All mounted and at midnight reached the ruined castle of Alcalá. Diego whistled three times. Directly after, the gipsy, holding a dark lantern, emerged from one of the vaults which open at the base of the castle. They dismounted and followed her.

Perico would have escaped by flight from the evil pass in which he found himself, but his companions surrounded him and dragged him with them whither the woman led. She, after saluting the robbers in a fawning voice, opened with a picklock the door of a rude court filled with rubbish and timbers. From the court a postern leads into the vestry, and through this the sacrilegious band entered the church, not without dread and trembling even at the sound of their own footsteps.

What a sublime and tremendous spectacle--a deserted temple in the dead of night! Under its influence even the purest and most pious souls sink in profound awe and devotion; and no amount of incredulity is sufficient to sustain the heart of him who presumes to violate it.

How immense appeared those shadowy naves! How far above them the corbels, which, upheld by giants of stone, seemed almost lost in the mysterious gloom of a sky without stars! There in a deep and lonesome niche, stretched prostrate and mute, slept a cold effigy upon a sepulchre. Its outlines were hardly discernible, but the very obscurity seemed to lend them motion.

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The high altar, still perfumed with the flowers and incense of the morning, gleamed through the darkness. The altar, centre of faith, throne of charity, refuge of hope, shelter of the defenceless, exhaustless source of consolations, attracting all eyes, all steps, all hearts. Before the tabernacle burned the lamp, solitary guardian of the sacrarium--burned only to light it, for light is the knowledge of God.

Holy and mysterious lamp--continual holocaust--aflame, tranquil like hope--silent, like reverence--ardent, like charity--and enduring like eternal mercy. The gleams and reflections of this light caught and relieved the prominent points of the carvings and mouldings of the gilded altarpiece, giving them the look of eyes keeping religious watch. There was nothing to distract the mind, the perfect fixedness, the unbroken stillness, effected as it were a suspension of life, which was not sleep--which was not death, but the peacefulness of the one and the deep solemnity of the other.

Such was the interior of the church of Alcalá when the spoilers entered, lighted by the gipsy's lantern and dragging with them, by main force, the unfortunate Perico.

"Let him go, and lock that door," said Diego.

"He will shout and betray us," said the others.

"Let him go, I say," retorted the captain. "What can he do?"

"He can shriek," answered Leon, who, assisted by the gipsy, was stripping the high altar of the silver furniture which adorned it.

"Guard him, then," said the captain. Two of the men approached Perico.

"Off with your hats, for you are in God's house,"' he cried.

"Gag him," commanded the captain, Resistance was useless. They instantly stopped his mouth with a handkerchief.

But notwithstanding the handkerchief, which suffocated him, when Perico saw that Leon and the gipsy were breaking open the sacrarium he made one desperate effort, and falling on his knees shouted, "Sacrilege! Sacrilege!!!" Terrible was the voice that resounded in the chapels, that echoed like thunder along the vaults, that awakened the grand and sonorous instrument which on other occasions accompanies the imposing De profundis and the glorious Te Deum, and died away in its metal tubes like a doleful wail. It caused a moment of cold terror to those miserable wretches. Even Diego trembled!

"Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!" moaned the unhappy Perico.

"Make haste," said Diego, "the night is becoming clearer, and we may be seen going out from here."

In fact, the clouds were breaking away, and a ray of the moon falling at this moment through a lofty skylight kissed the feet of an image of our Blessed Lady.

"Curse the moon!" exclaimed the gipsy; and frightened at seeing each other by the clear and sudden illumination, they hastened the work of spoliation. At last they left the church, and the gipsy, when she had seen them ride away loaded with riches, turned and again hid herself in the earth.

Before the sun brightened the Giralda the robbers reached the outskirts of Seville with their booty, They left their horses in an olive grove in charge of the convict, and each entered the city by a different gate, reuniting in an out-of-the-way place which the gipsy had indicated, where a silver-smith, who was in the secret, received, weighed, and paid for the valuables. But when they returned to the place where they had left the convict with the horses, they found it deserted.

"That dog has sold us," said one.

"For what?" said Diego, "when his part, which is likely to be worth more than his treason, is here."

"Perhaps he has seen people, and has gone to hide in El Cuervo," said another.

They set out in the direction of the hacienda, avoiding roads and beaten paths, and keeping within the shelter of the trees; but neither there did they find the convict.

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"My poor Corso!" said Diego, and a bitter tear shone for a moment in his eyes; but instantly recovering himself he said, "We are sold: but, courage! and let us save ourselves. Down the river; to the frontier; to Ayamonte; to Portugal. Some day I shall find him, and on that day he will wish he had never been born!"

They were leaving, when the gipsy presented herself to claim her share of the money. All assailed her with questions respecting the disappearance of the convict; but she knew nothing, and manifested much uneasiness.

"You are not safe here, and ought to get away as soon as may be," she said. "The elder son of the Countess of Villaoran has sworn to avenge his brother. He has got a troop from the captain-general, and is out after you. I am afraid he has surprised the convict. As for me I am going, the ground burns under my feet."

"Oh! that it would burn you up!" exclaimed one.

"Oh! that it would swallow you!" exclaimed another.

The old hag silently disappeared among the olives, like a viper which crawls away, leaving its venom in the bite it has inflicted.

"A robbery in the house of God!" said the first.

"The sacrarium violated!" said the other.

"Come, hold your tongues!" shouted Diego. "Make the best of what can't be undone. Let's be off."

But now they heard the tramp of horses, and Perico, who had been stationed to watch, came hastily in and informed them that the convict was coming. His arrival was greeted with shouts of joy. He said that he had seen a troop of horsemen, and had hidden himself; that in order to return he had been obliged to make large circuits. "But, now," he added, "we have no time to lose, they are on our track. Here, captain, is Corso, I have taken good care of him for you; I know how fond of him you are."

Diego joyfully caressed the noble creature vowing within himself never again to be separated from him.

They hastened their departure, when, suddenly, before them, behind them, above their heads, resounded a formidable demand, "Surrender to the king!"

They were surrounded by a party of cavalry. Two pistols were pointed at Diego's breast, and a man held the bridle of his horse. Diego cast his eyes around him with no feigned composure! Knowing the ability of the horse, which he had trained to this end, he drew his dagger with the quickness of light, and cut the hands which held the reins, pressed his knees strongly against the animal's sides, and, caressing his neck, cried, "Hey! Corso, save your master!"

The noble and intelligent creature made one effort, but fell back upon his haunches powerless. He was hamstrung!

Diego comprehended the blow, and knew the hand that had dealt it. Frantic with rage, he sprang to the ground, but the traitor had disappeared among the troop which crowded the pass. They took Diego, who made no useless resistance. As they left the defile, the bandit turned his head, and cast a last look upon the horse, that, always immovable, followed him with his large liquid eyes.

The soldiers disarmed the bandits, and tied their arms behind their backs. "Which is the one?" asked the Count of Villaoran when he saw them together--"which is the one that killed my brother?"

The robbers were silent at a look from Diego, who, though a prisoner and bound, still awed them.

"Which was it?" asked the count again, in a voice choked with rage.

"It was I," said Perico.

The count turned toward the drooping youth, who had not before attracted his notice; but when he fixed his eyes upon him a cry of horror escaped his lips.

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"You! Perico Alvareda! Iniquity without name! Perversity without example! Poor Anna! wretched mother that bore you! Unfortunate little ones! Unhappy Rita! Know, infamous man," continued the count with vehemence, "that your wife has worked with incessant zeal and activity to procure your pardon. She was always at the feet of the judges. Ventura forgave you before he died. Pedro has forgiven you. My poor brother was the zealous and tireless agent of your friends. He obtained your pardon of the king. All were anxiously seeking you, and he more than all the rest, and I--would to God I had never found you!"

Diego, who saw the immense grief which the coldness and pallor of death painted upon the changing countenance of Perico, and noticed that he was tottering, said to the count:

"Sir, do you see that you are killing him?"

"I will not anticipate the executioner," answered the count, mounting his horse.

"Courage!" murmured Diego in the ear of the sinking Perico. "Look at us. We are all going to die, and we are all serene."

They entered Seville amidst the maledictions of the populace, horrified by their recent crimes. But the indignation with which the crowd saw the vile traitor who had sold his companions, walking among them free, was beyond measure.

This traitor was the convict, who by betraying the others had bought his own pardon, and obtained the reward promised to the person who should secure the arrest of the notorious robber Diego, who had so long laughed at the efforts of his pursuers.

CHAPTER XX.

The prison of Seville was at that time badly situated, in a narrow street in the most central part of the city. It was an ill-looking structure, scaly and mean; wanting in its style the dignity of legal authority and the outward respect which humanity owes to misfortune, even when it is criminal. A few steps from this centre of hardened wickedness and beastly degradation the street ends in the grand plaza of San Francisco--an irregular oblong area, bounded by those edifices which make it the most imposing plaza of the famed deanery of Andalucia, On the right are the chapter-houses whose exquisite architecture renders them in the eyes of both Sevillans and strangers the finest ornaments of the city. On the left, forming a projecting angle, stands the regular and severe edifice of the Audiencia, the tribunal to which justice gives all power. Surmounting it, like a signal of mercy, is its clock--ten minutes too slow; venerable illegality, which gives ten minutes more of life to the criminal before striking the cruel hour named for his execution. Thus all the laws and customs of ancient Spain have the seal of charity. Ten minutes, to him who is passing tranquilly along the road of life, are nothing; but to him who is about to die, they are priceless. Upon the threshold of death, ten minutes may decide his sentence for eternity. Ten minutes may bring an unhoped-for but possible pardon. But even though these considerations, spiritual and temporal, did not exist; though this impressive souvenir of our forefathers were nothing more than the grant of ten minutes of existence to him who is about to die, it would still prove that, even to their most severe decrees, our ancestors knew how to affix the seal of charity. As such it is recognized by the people, who understand and appreciate it, for it is one of the customs which they hold in highest reverence. O Spain! what examples hast thou not given to the world of all that is good and wise! thou that to-day art asking them of strangers!

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On one side of the town-hall, forming a receding angle, is seen the great convent of San Francisco with its imposing church. The other fronts form arches that, like stone festoons, adorn the sides of the plaza. At the end opposite the point first mentioned is an immense marble fountain, of which the flow of waters is as changeless and lasting as the material of the basin which receives it.

One day the plaza of San Francisco and the streets leading to it were covered with an unusual multitude. What drew them together? Why were they there? To see a man die--but no, not die; to see a man kill his brother! To die is solemn, not terrible, when the angel gently closes the sufferer's weary eyes and gives his soul wings to rise to other regions. But to see a man killed, by a human hand, in travail of spirit, in agony of soul, in tortures of pain, is appalling. And yet men go, and hasten, and crowd each other, to witness the consummation of legal doom. But it is neither pleasure nor curiosity that attracts the awe-struck multitude. It is that fatal desire of emotion which takes possession of the contradictory human heart. This might have been read in those faces, at once pale, anxious, and horrified. An indistinct murmur ran through the dense multitude, in the midst of which rose that pillar of shame and anguish; that usurper of the mission of death; that foothold of the forsaken, which no one but the priest treads voluntarily--the fearful scaffold, built at night, by the melancholy light of lanterns, because the men who raise it are ashamed to be seen by the light of God's sun and the eyes of their fellowmen. The crowd shuddered at intervals at the mournful strokes of the bell of San Francisco, pealing for a being who no longer existed except to God, for the world had blotted him from the list of the living. Its notes, now rising to God in supplication for a soul, now descending to mortals in expressive admonition, forming part of the overwhelming solemnity which was inhaled with the air and oppressed the breast, seemed to say, Die, guilty ones die in expiatory sacrifice for this sinful humanity. Only the pure and limpid fountain continued its sweet and monotonous song, unconscious as childhood and innocence of the terrors of the earth. O innocence, emanation of Paradise, still respired in our corrupted atmosphere by children and those privileged beings who have, like faith, a bandage upon their eyes, that they may believe without seeing, and another upon their hearts, that they may see and not comprehend; who have, like charity, their heart in their hand, and, like hope, their eyes fixed on heaven, thou art always surrounded by reverence, love, and admiration, which, as the daughter of heaven, thou meritest.

There are two classes of charity: one relieves material sufferings in a material way, and with money--this is beautiful and liberal, but easy, and a social obligation. The other is that which relieves moral anguish, morally. This is sublime and divine. Of the latter class, one that has not been sufficiently praised by society, which finds so many occasions for censure and so few for eulogy, is the Brotherhood of Charity. And who compose this admirable congregation? Those, perhaps, who waste so much paper and phraseology in favor of humanity, philanthropy, and fraternity? No, not one of them condescends to enter this corporation, which is formed principally of the aristocracy of those places where it has been established. The truth is, that between theory and practice, as between saying and doing, there is a great space.

In Seville, a short time after the events related in the last chapter, several gentlemen of distinction were seen passing through the streets, each holding out a small basket, as he repeated in a grave voice, "For the unfortunates who are to be put to death."

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Diego and his band were assembled in the chapel of the prison, constantly attended by some of the brotherhood, who, leaving their homes, their pleasures, and their occupations, came to take part in this prolonged agony, consoling the last moments of these sinful men; anticipating their wishes with more attention than those of kings are anticipated, and pouring balsam into the wound inflicted by the sword of justice.

Two of the most zealous and devoted of the brotherhood, the Count of Cantillana and the Marquis of Greffina, had been to the tribunal, which is established and remains in session in the jail while the condemned are being prepared and led to the scaffold, and during the execution, to ask of it the bodies of those who were to suffer. The following is the formula adopted by this noble and affecting Catholic institution:

"We come, in the name of Joseph and of Nicodemus, to ask leave to take the body down from the place of punishment." The judge grants the prayer, and they withdraw.

Each prisoner was accompanied by his confessor--a blessed staff to sustain the steps that are turned toward the scaffold.

When Perico had finished his sacramental confession, he said to the venerable religious who assisted him: "My name is not known; they call me 'Perico the Sad;' but, since between earth and heaven nothing is hidden, my family will, sooner or later, know my fate. Have the charity, father, to fulfil my last desire, and be yourself the one to carry the news to my mother. Tell her that I died repentant and contrite, and not so criminal as I appear. An evil life is a ravine into which one is drawn by the first crime. That crime which has weighed and is weighing so heavily upon me, I committed because I preferred a vain thing which men call honor, and which has sometimes to be bought with blood, to the precepts of the gospel, which make a virtue of forbearance and command us to forgive. O father! how different appear the things of life on the threshold of the tomb! Tell my poor sister, whose bridegroom I killed, that I commend her to another and immortal One, who will never deceive her. Tell Pedro that I know he has forgiven me, as did his son, and that I carry this consolation to the grave, and my gratitude to God. Tell Rita that I lived and died loving her, and that, if I had lived, I never would have reminded her of the past, since she has repented of it. Ask my mother-in-law, who is so good, to recommend me to God . . . . and my poor children . . . my orphans . . . . Oh! if it were possible that they might never know . . . . the fate of their father . . . . who . . . . blesses them . . ."

Here his bursting heart found vent in sobs.

The priest who heard him, convinced of the innocence of his heart, seeing how he had been surprised into crime by all that exasperates and blinds the reason of a husband, a brother, and a brave man, and forced into an evil life by circumstances, necessity, and his natural want of firmness, felt as one who without means or power to save it sees a fair vessel dashing to pieces at his feet.

Rita's constant and energetic movements to discover the whereabouts of Perico, whose pardon, with the assistance of charitable souls, she had obtained from the king, brought her, with her mother, that day to Seville. Attempting to pass the plaza of San Francisco they encountered the great crowd which had gathered there, and, asking the cause of the tumult, were shown the scaffold. They would have retired, but could not for the press behind them.

One of the condemned is approaching; all burst into exclamations of pity--"Poor boy! This is the one they call 'Perico the Sad;' they say that his wife, a good-for-nothing, was the ruin of him."

Rita's heart beats violently--the criminal passes--she sees--she recognizes him. A shriek, another such was never uttered, rends the air--heard in all the market-place.

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Perico stops: "Father," he says, "it is she! it is Rita!"

"My son," replies the priest, "think only of God, in whose presence you are going to appear, contrite, reconciled, and happy, carrying with you your expiation."

"Father, if I could only see her before I die?"

"My son, think of the bitter punishment and of the glorious illumination you are going to receive from man, who is the instrument of God in your destiny." Perico wishes to turn "Forward!" orders the sergeant.

He mounts the scaffold and kneels to the spiritual father, who with a calm face, but a heart sorely oppressed, blesses him. He kisses the crucifix, that other scaffold, upon which the Man-God expiated the sins of others, still turning his eyes toward the place from which the voice sounded that pierced his heart; seats himself upon the bench; the executioner, who stands behind him, places the garrote around his neck; the priest intones the creed; the executioner turns the screw, and a simultaneous cry, "Ave Maria purissima!" sounds in the plaza. With this invocation to the Mother of God, humanity takes leave of the condemned at the moment that he is separated from it by the hand of the law.

The executioner covers the face of the victim with a black cloth, and the black shadow of the wings of death falls upon the hushed multitude.

Some compassionate persons carried Rita away senseless. Her situation was terrible beyond expression. The convulsions which shook her left her but few moments of consciousness, and in these moments she gave way to her despair in a way so frightful that they were obliged to hold her as if she had been mad. For some days it was impossible to move her. At length her relatives brought a cart to take her away. They laid her in it, upon a mattress, but not one of them would accompany her for shame. Maria went alone with her child, sustaining her head upon her lap. Rita's long black hair fell around her like a veil, covering her from the glances of the indiscreet and curious. "There goes," they said, as they saw her pass, "the wife of the criminal, who by her indiscretion sent him to the scaffold." But the oxen did not hasten their deliberate steps. It seemed as if they also had a mission to fulfil, in prolonging the punishment of reprobation to her who hid provoked it with so much audacity. Maria went like a resigned martyr. Her gentle heart had been made as it were elastic, in order to contain without bursting an immensity of suffering. From time to time Rita shuddered and broke into lamentations, pressing convulsively her mother's knees. The latter said nothing, for even she found no words of consolation for such grief.

They reached the village as night was coming on. The cart stopped before their house, and Rita was lifted out.

She sees a window wide open in her mother-in-law's house; through this window an unusual light is shining. She breaks away from the arms that sustain her and rushes to the grating. In the middle of the room which she inhabited in happy times, stands a bier. Four wax candles throw their solemn light upon the calm form of Elvira. She is as white as her shroud; her hands are crossed, and through her right arm passes a palm branch--emblem consecrated to virginity. Thus in simple grace, and in the attitude of prayer, lies the pious village maiden.

In the front part of that melancholy room were still seen the withered plants which on a happier day had formed the mimic Bethlehem. At the extremity of the room sits Anna, as pale and motionless as the corpse itself. On one side of her is Pedro, and on the other the priest who accompanied Perico to the scaffold.

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Years after the events we have related, the Marquis of ---- went to spend some days at one of the haciendas of Dos-Hermanas. One evening, when he was returning from the estate of a relative, he noticed as he passed near an olive-tree that the overseer and the guard who accompanied him uncovered their heads. He glanced upward, and saw nailed to the tree a red cross. "Has there been a murder in this quiet place?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered the guard, "here was killed the handsomest and bravest youth that ever trod Dos-Hermanas."

"And the murderer," added the overseer, "was the best and most honorable young man of the place."

"But how was that?" questioned the marquis.

"Through wine and women, sir, the cause of all misfortunes," replied the guard.

And as they went along they told the story we have repeated, with all its circumstances and details.

"Do any of the family still live in the place?" asked the marquis, extremely interested in the recital.

"Uncle Pedro died that year; Perico's wife would have let herself die of grief, but the priest that assisted her husband persuaded her to try to live to fulfil the will of God and her husband, by taking care of her children; but to stay here where every one knew and loved her husband, she must have had a brazen face indeed; she went with her mother to the sierra, where they had relatives. One who came from there awhile since, and had seen her, says that she does not look like the same person. The tears have worn furrows in her cheeks; she is as thin as the scythe of death, and her health is destroyed. Poor aunt Anna died only the day before yesterday. She looked like a shadow, and walked bent as if she were seeking her grave as a bed of rest."

They had now reached the village, and as they were passing a large gloomy building, the overseer said, "This is her house."

The marquis paused a moment, and then entered. An old woman, a relation of the deceased, lived alone in the sad and empty house, over which, at that instant, the moon cast a white shroud.

"How these vines are dying!" said the marquis.

"They were not so," answered the woman, "when that poor dear child took care of them. They used to be covered with flowers that flourished like daughters under the hand of a mother. But she closed her eyes, never again to open them in this world, the day she heard of her brother's fate."

"Oh!" exclaimed the gentleman, "what a pity! this magnificent orange-tree is dead."

"Yes; it is older than the world, sir, and was used to a great deal of petting and care. After poor Anna lost her children, neither she nor any one else minded it, and it withered."

"And this dog?" asked the marquis, seeing a dog, old and blind, lying in one comer.

"The poor Melampo, from the time he lost his master he grew melancholy and blind. Anna, before she died, begged me to take care of him; it was almost the only thing the dear soul spoke of; but there will be no need; when they took away her corpse he began to howl, and since then he will not eat." The marquis drew nearer. Melampo was dead.

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