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

CHAPTER I.

Following the curve formed by the ancient walls of Seville, encircling it as with a girdle of stone, leaving on the right the river and Las Delicias, we reach the gate of San Fernando. From this gate, in a direct line across the plain, as far as the ridge of Buena Vista, extends a road which passes the rill upon a bridge of stone, and ascends the steep side of the hill. To the right of the road are seen the ruins of a chapel. At a bird's-eye view this road looks like an arm which Seville extends toward the ruins as if to call attention to them; for though small, and without a vestige of artistic merit, they form a religious and historic souvenir. They are an inheritance from the great king, Fernando III., whose memory is so popular that he is admired as a hero, venerated as a saint, and beloved as a king: thus realizing, in one grand historic figure the ideal of the Spanish people.

Having gained the summit, the road descends upon the opposite side into a a little valley, through which runs a narrow stream, which has washed its channel so clean that you will see in it only shining pebbles and golden sand.

Fording this stream, the road touches on its right at a cheerful and hospitable little inn, and salutes on its left a Moorish castle seated so haughtily upon the height that it seems as though the ground had risen solely to form a pedestal for it. This castle was given by Don Pedro de Castilla to Doña Maria de Padilla, whose name it retains. The estate and castle of Doña Maria passed in time, as a pious donation, to the Cathedral of Seville, the chapter of which has, in our days, sold it to a private gentleman. The associations passed for nothing, since a little while afterward, the withered, old, and furrowed Doña Maria appeared clothed in the whitest of lime, and adorned with brilliants of crystal.

Let us follow the road which advances, opening its way through the palmettos and evergreens of some pasture-lands, until it enters the village of Dos-Hermanas, [Footnote 85] situated in the midst of a sandy plain, two leagues from Seville.

One sees here neither river, nor lake, nor umbrageous trees, nor rural houses with green blinds, nor arbors covered with twining plants, nor peacocks and Guinea fowls picking the green turf, nor grand avenues of trees in straight lines, like slaves holding parasols, to provide a constant shade for those who walk beneath. All these are wanting here. Sad it is to confess it! All is common, rude, and inelegant, but instead, one meets good and contented faces, which prove how little those things are needed to make happiness. One sees, beside, flowers in the yards of the houses, and at their doors gay and healthy children, even more numerous than the flowers, and finds that sweet peace of the country, made up of silence and solitude, an atmosphere of Eden and the sky of paradise.

The village consists of houses of a single story, arranged in long, straight, though not parallel streets, which open upon the large, sandy market-place, spread out like a yellow carpet before a fine church, which lifts its lofty tower, surmounted by a cross, like a soldier elevating his standard.

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Behind the church we shall find the oasis of this desert. Supported by the rear wall of the edifice is a gate, opening into a wide and vast court, which leads to the chapel of Saint Anna, the patroness of the place. Built against the side of the chapel is the small and humble dwelling of the custodian, who is both singer and sacristan of the church. In this enclosure we shall see century-old cypresses, thick foliaged and sombre; the lilac, of stem so slight and rapid growth, lavishing leaves, flowers, and perfumes upon the wind, as if conscious that its life is short; the orange, that grand seigneur, that favorite son of the soil of Andalusia, to whom it yields a life so sweet and long. We shall see the vine, which, like a child, needs the help of man to thrive and rise, and which spreads its broad leaves as if to caress the trellis that supports it. For it is certain that even plants have their individual characters from which we receive different impressions. We can hardly see a cypress without sadness, a lilac without tenderness, an orange-tree without admiration. Does not the lavender suggest the thought of a neat and peaceful interior; and the rosemary, perfume of holy night, does it not awaken the wholesome and sacred thoughts of that season?

To the right and left of the place extend those interminable olive plantations, which form the principal branch of the agriculture of Andalusia. The trees being planted well apart from each other give a cheerful air to these groves, but the ground underneath, kept so level and free from other vegetation by the plough, renders them wearisomely monotonous. At certain distances we encounter the groups of buildings which belong to the estates. These are constructed without taste or symmetry, and we may go all round them without finding the front. There is nothing imposing about these great masses, or structures, except the towers of their windmills, which rise above the olives as if to count them. The most of these estates belong to the aristocracy of Seville, but they are generally deserted because the ladies do not like to live in the country, and are therefore as desolate and as empty as barns, so that in these out-of-the-way places, the silence is only broken by the crowing of the cock, while he vigilantly guards his seraglio, or by the braying of some superannuated ass, that, turned out by the overseer to take his ease, tires of his solitude.

At the close of a beautiful day in January, in the year 1810, might have been heard the fresh voice of a youth of some twenty years, who, with his musket upon his shoulder, was walking with a firm but light step along one of the footpaths which are traced through the olive groves. His figure was straight, tall, and slight. His person, his air, his walk, had the ease, the grace, and the elegance which art endeavors to create, and which nature herself lavishes upon the Andalusians with generous hand. His head, covered with black curls, a model of the beautiful Spanish type, he carried erect and proudly. His large eyes were black and vivid; his look frank and full of intelligence. His well-formed upper lip, shortened with an expression of cheerful humor, showed his white and brilliant teeth. His whole person breathed a superabundance of life, health, and strength. A silver button fastened the snowy shirt at his brown throat. He wore a short jacket of gray cloth, short trowsers, tied at the knee with cords and tassels of silk, and a yellow silk girdle passed several times around his waist. Leather shoes and gaiters of the same, finely stitched, encased his well-formed feet and legs. A wide-brimmed Portuguese hat, adorned with a velvet band and silk tassels, and jauntily inclined toward the left side, completed the elegant Andalusian dress.

This youth, noted for his active disposition, and for his impulsive and daring character, was employed by the superintendent of one of the estates to act as guard during the olive gathering. He sang as he went along:

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Arriving at the paling which enclosed the plantation the guard sprang over it without stopping to look for the gate, and found himself in a road face to face with another youth a little older than himself, who was also going toward the village. He was dressed in the same manner, but he was neither so tall nor so erect as the former.

His eyes were gray, and not so vivid, and his glance was more tranquil, his mouth was graver and his smile sweeter. Instead of a gun he carried a spade upon his shoulder. An ass preceded him without being driven, and he was followed by an enormous dog, with short thick hair of a whitish yellow color, of the fine race of shepherd-dogs of Estremadura.

"Halloo! Is this you, Perico? God bless you!" exclaimed the elegant guard.

"And you, too, Ventura, are you coming to take a rest?"

"No," answered Ventura, "I come for supplies, and besides, it is eight days--"

"Since you saw my sister, Elvira," interrupted Perico with his sweet smile. "Very good, my friend, you are killing two birds with one stone."

"You keep still, Perico, and I will. He whose house has a glass roof shouldn't throw stones at his neighbor's," answered the guard.

"You are happy, Ventura," proceeded Perico with a sigh, "for you can marry when you like, without opposition from any one."

"And what!" exclaimed Ventura, "who or what can oppose your getting married?"

"The will of my mother," replied Perico.

"What are you saying?" asked Ventura, "and why? What fault can she find with Rita, who is young, good-looking, and comes of a good stock, since she is own cousin to you?"

"That is precisely the reason my mother alleges for not being in favor of it."

"An old woman's scruples! Does she wish to change the custom of the church, which permits it?"

"My mother's scruples," replied Perico, "are not religious ones. She says that the union of such near relations is against nature, that the same blood in both repels itself, and distaste is the result; that sooner or later evils, misfortunes and weariness follow and overtake them, and she gives a hundred examples to prove it."

"Don't mind her," said Ventura; "let her prophesy and sing evil like an owl. Mothers have always something against their sons' marrying."

"No," answered Perico gravely, "no; without my mother's consent I will never marry."

They walked along some instants in silence when Ventura said:

"The truth is, I am like the captain who embarked the passengers and remained on shore himself, or like the preacher who used to say, 'Do as I tell you and not as I do;' for, in fact, does not the will of my father hold me, tied down like a lion with a woollen rope? Do you think, Perico, that if it were not for my father, I would not now be in Utrera, where the regiment of volunteers is enlisting to go and fight the infamous traitors who steal across our frontier in the guise of friends, to make themselves masters of the country and put a foreign yoke upon our necks?"

"I am of the same mind," said Perico, "but how can I leave my mother and sister who have only me to look to? But remember, if my mother sets herself against my marrying, I'm not going to live so, and I shall go with the other young men."

"And you will do right," said Ventura with energy. "As for me, the day they least expect it, though they call me, I shall not answer, and you may be sure, Perico, that on that day there will be a few less Frenchmen on the soil of Spain."

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"And Elvira?" questioned Perico.

"She will do like others, wait for me--or weep for me."

CHAPTER II.

The house of the family of Perico was spacious and neatly whitewashed, both without and within. On each side of the door, built against the wall, was a bench of mason work. In the entry hung a lantern before an image of our Lord which was fixed upon the inner door, according to the Catholic custom, which requires that a religious thought shall precede everything, and puts all things under some holy patronage. In the midst of the spacious court-yard an enormous orange-tree rose luxuriantly upon its smooth and robust trunk. Its base was shielded by a wooden frame. For numberless generations this beautiful tree had been a source of enjoyment to this family. The deceased Juan Alvareda, the father of Perico, claimed upon tradition, that its existence dated as far back as the expulsion of the Moors, when, according to his assertion, an Alvareda, a soldier of the royal saint, Fernando, had planted it, and when the parish priest, who was his wife's brother, would jest him upon the antiquity, and uninterrupted succession of his lineage, or make light of it, he always answered, without being disturbed or vacillating for an instant in his conviction, that all the lineages of the world were ancient, and that, though the direct line or succession of the rich might often be extinguished, such a thing never happened with the poor.

The women of the family made of the leaves of the orange-tree tonics for the stomach and soothing preparations for the nerves. The young girls adorned themselves with its flowers and made confections of them. The children regaled their palate and refreshed their blood with its fruit. The birds had their quarters-general among its leaves, and sung to it a thousand cheerful songs, while its possessors, who had grown up under its shelter, watered it unweariedly in summer-time and in winter cut away its withered twigs, as one pulls the gray hairs from the head of the father he would never see grow old.

On opposite sides of the entry were two suites of rooms, or, according to the expression of the province, partidos, both alike; consisting, each, of a parlor having two small windows with gratings looking toward the street, and two bedrooms forming an angle with the parlor, and receiving light from the yard. At the end of the yard was a door which opened into a large enclosure in which were the kitchen, wash-house, and stables, and which paraded in its centre a large fig-tree of so little pretension and self-esteem that it yielded itself without complaint to the nightly roost of the hens, never having bent its boughs under the inconvenient weight, even to play them a trick by way of carnival.

The master of the house had been dead three years. When he felt his end approaching, he called his son to him and said: "In your care I leave your mother and sister; be guided by the one and watch over the other. Live always in the holy fear of God, and think often of death, so that you may see his approach without either surprise or fear. Remember my end, that you may not dread your own. All the Alvaredas have been honest men; in your veins flows the same Spanish blood and in your heart exist the same Catholic principles that made them such. Be like them, and you will live happily and die in peace!"

Anna, his widow, was a woman distinguished among her class, and she would have been so in a more elevated one. Carefully brought up by her brother the priest, her understanding was cultivated, her character grave, her manners dignified, and her virtue instinctive. These merits, united with {501} her easy circumstances, gave her a real superiority over those who surrounded her, which she accepted without misusing. Her son Perico, submissive, modest, and industrious, had been her consolation, his love for his cousin Rita being the only disquietude he had ever caused her.

Her daughter Elvira, who was three years younger than Perico, was a malva in gentleness, a violet in modesty and a lily in purity. Ill-health in childhood had given to her features, which closely resembled those of her brother, a delicacy, and an expression of calm resignation, which lent to her a singular attraction. From her infancy she had clung to Ventura, the proud and handsome son of Uncle Pedro, who had been the friend and gossip of the late Alvareda.

The wife of Pedro died in giving birth to a daughter, who from her infancy had been confided to the care of her mother's sister, a religious of Alcala. Separated thus from his daughter, Pedro had concentrated all his affection upon his son, and with pride and satisfaction had seen him become the handsomest, the bravest, and the most gallant, of all the youths of the place.

Directly in front of the house of the Alvaredas stood the small cottage of Maria, the mother of Rita. Maria was the widow of Anna's brother, who had been superintendent of the neighboring hacienda of Quintos.

This woman was so good, so without gall, so candid and simple, that she had never possessed enough force and energy to subdue the decided, haughty, and imperious character which her daughter had manifested from her childhood, and these evil dispositions had therefore developed themselves without restraint. She was violent-tempered, fickle, and cold-hearted. Her face, extraordinarily beautiful, seductively expressive, piquant, lively, smiling, and mischievous, formed a perfect contrast to that of her cousin Elvira.

The one might have been compared to a fresh rose armed with its thorns; the other to one of those roses of passion, which lift above their pale leaves a crown of thorns in token of endurance, while they hide in the depths of their calix the sweetest honey.

In the delineation and classification of the members which composed this family and those connected with them, we must not omit Melampo, the dog we have already seen, lazily following Perico on his return home. We must give him his place, for not all dogs are equal, even in the eye of the law. Melampo was a grave and honorable dog, without pretension, even to being a Hercules or an Alcides among his race, notwithstanding his enormous strength. He seldom barked, and never without good cause. He was sober and in nothing gluttonous. He never caressed his masters, but never, upon any pretext, separated himself from them. He had never, in all his life, bitten any person, and he despised above all things the attacks of those curs that with stupid hostility barked at his heels. But Melampo had killed six foxes and three wolves; and one day had thrown himself upon a bull which was pursuing his master, and obliged him to stop by seizing him by the ear, as one might treat a bad child. With such certificates of service, Melampo slept in the sun upon his laurels.

CHAPTER III.

When the two youths arrived, they found Elvira and Rita leaning each against a side of the doorway, wrapped in their mantles of yellow cloth, bordered with black velvet ribbon, such as were worn then by the women of the country in place of the large shawls which they use nowadays. They covered the lower part of the face, allowing only the forehead and eyes to be seen. Having wished them good evening, Perico said to his sister:

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"Elvira, I warn you that this bird wants to fly; fasten the cage well . . . He is beside himself to go and fight these gabachos [Footnote 86] who are trying to pass through here like Pedro through his house."

[Footnote 86: Gabachos, a term of contempt for Frenchmen.]

"For they say," added Ventura, "that they are approaching Seville; and must we stand looking on with our arms crossed, without so much as saying this mouth is my own?"

"Ah goodness!" exclaimed Elvira, "I hope in God that this may not happen! Do not even speak of it! O my protectress Saint Anna! I offer thee what I prize so much, my hair, which I will tie up in a tress with an azure ribbon and hang upon thy altar, if thou wilt save us from this."

"And I," said Rita, "will offer the Saint two pots of pinks to adorn her chapel, if it falls out so that you take yourselves off in haste and do not come back soon."

"Don't say that, even in jest," exclaimed Elvira, distressed.

"Never mind, let her say it; the Saint is sure to prefer the beautiful tress of your hair to her pinks," observed Ventura.

At this moment the good widow, Maria, approached. She was older than her sister-in-law, and although hardly sixty years old, was so small and thin that she appeared much older.

"Children," she cried, "the night is falling, what are you doing out here, freezing yourselves?"

"How freezing ourselves?" answered Ventura, unbuttoning his collar, "I'm too warm, the cold is in your bones, Aunt Maria."

"Do not play with your health, my son, nor trust in your youth, for Death does not look at the record of baptism. This north wind cuts like a knife, and you are more likely to get a consumption by waiting here than an inheritance from the Indies."

So saying she passed into the house, all following her, except Ventura, who went to discharge his commissions.

They found Anna seated before the brasier, the point of reunion round which families gather m winter. The great copper frying-pan shone like gold upon its low wooden bench. The floor of the spacious room was covered with mattings of straw and hemp, around it were arranged rude wooden chairs, high-backed and low-seated, a low pine table upon which burned a large metal lamp, and a leathern arm-chair, like those seen in the barbers' shops of the region, completed the simple furniture of the room. In the alcove were seen a very high bed, over which was spread a white counterpane with well starched ruffles; a very large cedar chest, with supports underneath to preserve it from the dampness of the floor; a small table of the same wood, upon which, in its case of mahogany and glass, was a beautiful image of "Our Lady of Sorrows," some pious offerings, and the "Mystic Garland; or, Lives of the Saints," by Father Baltasar Bosch Centellas.

As soon as they were all reunited, including Pedro, the neighbor and friend of Anna, the latter began to recite the rosary. When the prayers were finished Anna took up her distaff to spin, Elvira applied herself to her knitting, and Pedro, who occupied the great chair, employed himself in the preparation of a cigarette; Perico in roasting chestnuts and acorns, which, when they were done, he gave to Rita, who ate them.

"Did you ever!" said Perico, "how the rain holds off! The earth has turned to stone and the sky to brass. Last year at this time it had rained so much that the ground could not be seen for the grass that covered it."

"It is true," said Uncle Pedro, "and now the flocks are perishing with hunger, notwithstanding that last year their table was so well spread."

"It appears to me," added Elvira, in her sweet voice, "that it is going to rain soon. The river wore its black frown to-day, and the old people say that these frowns are sleeping tempests, which, when the winds awaken them, drench the world.'"

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"Of course it is going to rain," said Rita; "I saw to-night the star of the waters which the storm brings for a lantern."

"It is a-going to rain," confirmed Maria, aroused from her dose by the abrupt and clear voice of her daughter; "my rheumatic pains announce it to me. Indeed, wind and rain are the fruits of the season, and they are needed. But I am sorry for the poor herdsmen who pass such nights in the inn of the stars."

"Don't trouble yourself about them, Maria," said the jovial Uncle Pedro, who had always a saying, a proverb, a story, or a something, to bring in support of whatever he asserted. "In this world habit is everything, and that which seems disagreeable to one, another finds quite to his liking; custom makes all level as the sea, and gilds all like the sun. There was once a shepherd that got married to a girl as lovely as a rose, and as chance would have it, on the very night of the wedding there arose such a tempest as if all the imps from beneath had been abroad with thunder and lightning, hurricane and flood. It was too much for the shepherd; he abandoned his bride and rushed to the window exclaiming as he dashed it open, 'O blessed night I why am I not out to enjoy thee!'"

"The bride might well be jealous of such a rival," said Rita, bursting into a loud laugh.

The clock struck nine, they recited the "animas," and soon afterward separated.

When the mother and her children were left alone Elvira spread a clean cloth upon the table and placed upon it a dish of salad. Anna and her daughter began to sup, but Perico remained seated with his head inclined over the brasier, absently stirring with the shovel the few coals which still glowed among the ashes.

"Are you not going to eat your supper, Perico?" said his sister, extending toward him the fine white bread which she herself had kneaded.

"I am not hungry," he answered, without lifting his head.

"Are you sick, my son?" asked Anna.

"No, mother," he replied.

The supper was finished in silence, and when Elvira had gone out, carrying the plates, Perico abruptly said to his mother:

"Mother, I am going to Utrera tomorrow to enlist with the loyal Spanish who are preparing to defend the country."

Anna was thunderstruck. Accustomed to the docile obedience of her son, who had never failed to keep his word, she said to him:

"To the war? That is to say that you are going to abandon us. But it cannot be! You must not do it! You ought not to leave your mother and sister, and I will not give my consent."

"Mother," said the young man, exasperated, "it is seen that you always have something to oppose to my desires; you have subjected my will, and now you wish to fetter my arm; but mother," he proceeded, growing excited, and impelled by the two greatest motives which can rule a man--patriotism in all its purity, and love in all its ardor, "mother, I am twenty-two years old, and I have besides strength enough and will enough, to break away if you force me to it."

Anna, as much astonished as terrified, clapped her cold and trembling hands in agony, exclaiming:

"What! is there no alternative between a marriage which will make you wretched and the war which will cost you your life?"

"None, mother," said Perico, drawn out of his natural character, and hardened by the dread that he should yield in the contest now fairly entered upon. "Either I remain to marry, or I go to fulfil the duty of every young Spaniard."

"Marry, then," said the mother in a grave voice. "Between two misfortunes I choose the least bitter; but remember, Perico, what your mother tells you to-day; Rita is vain and light {504} an indifferent Christian, and an ungrateful daughter. A bad daughter makes a bad wife--your blood and hers will repel each other. You will remember what your mother now says, but it will be too late."

Saying these words, the noble woman rose and went into her room to hide from her son the tears that choked her voice.

Perico, who regarded his mother with as much tenderness as veneration, made a movement as if to retain her. He would have spoken, but his timidity and the excitement of his mind confused his faculties. He found no words, and after a moment of indecision rose suddenly, passed his hand across his damp forehead, and went out.

During this time Rita, who waited in vain at the grating of her window for Perico, was impatient and uneasy.

"I won't put up with this!" she said at last, spitefully, closing the wooden shutter. "You may come now, but upon my life, you shall wait longer than I have." At this instant a stone rolled against the foot of the wall, This was the signal agreed upon between her and Perico to announce his arrival.

"Now you may roll all the stones of Dos-Hermanas and I shall not open the shutter," said Rita to herself. "Perhaps you think you have me at your will and pleasure, like your old donkey, but this will never do, my son."

Another stone came rolling, and bounded back from the wall with more violence than Perico was accustomed to use.

"Ho!" said Rita, "he appears to be in a hurry; it is well to let him know that waiting has not the flavor of caramels; I'm only sorry it doesn't rain pitchforks." But, after a moment of reflection, she added, "If we quarrel, the one to bathe in rose water will be my hypocrite of an aunt; afterward Uncle Pedro's daughter, Saint Marcela, that the old fox keeps shut up in the convent, like a sardine in pickle, will be brought out to dance, so that she may trap his godson Perico on the first opportunity. But they shall not see themselves in that glass, for to frustrate their plans--"

And suddenly opening the window, she finished the sentence:

"I am here." Addressing herself to Perico, she continued with asperity, "Look here, are you determined to throw down the wall? Why did you wake me? When I am kept waiting I fall asleep, and when I am asleep I do not thank anyone for disturbing me; so go back by the way you came, or by another, it's all the same to me." And she made a motion as if to shut the blind.

"Rita, Rita!" exclaimed Perico, "I have spoken to my mother."

"You!" said Rita, opening again the half-shut blind. "You don't say it! Why, this is another miracle like that of Balaam's ass! and what answer did this 'mater' not 'amabilis' give you?"

"She says, yes, that I may marry," answered Perico delightedly.

"Says yes!" mocked Rita. "Saint Quilindon help me! How often a key can turn! But it belongs to the wise to change their minds. Go along with you! To-morrow I will come over and condole with her. Perico, what if, following the good example of your mother, as mine exhorts me to, I also should change my mind and now say no?"

"Rita, Rita!" cried Perico, beside himself with joy, "you are going to be my wife."

"That remains to be seen," she responded; "the idea is not like a silver dollar, which, the oftener you turn it, the prettier it looks."

With these and other absurdities Rita blotted entirely from the mind of Perico, the solemn impression his mother's words had left there.

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CHAPTER IV.

On the following morning Anna was sitting alone, sad and depressed, when Uncle Pedro entered. "Neighbor," he said, "here I am, because I have come."

"May it be for good, neighbor?"

"But I have come because I have something to talk to you about."

"Talk on, neighbor, and the more the better."

"You must know, then, that my wind-mill of a Ventura has taken it into his head to go and get his hide pierced by those French savages, confound them!"

"Gently, gently, neighbor; kill an enemy in fair fight, but do not curse him. Perico also was thinking of the same thing. It is bitter, old friend, it is cruel for us, but it is natural."

"I do not say the contrary, my friend. Bad luck to the traitors! but, in short, he is my only son, and I would not lose him; no, not for all Spain. I have found but one means to keep him at home and am come to tell you what that is."

As he spoke, Pedro was seating himself comfortably in the great leathern arm-chair, gathering up the ends of his cloak, approaching his feet to the fire, and settling himself at his ease generally.

"Neighbor," he said, at last, with that profusion of synonymous phrases in which great talkers indulge, "I abhor preambles, which only serve to waste the breath. Things ought to be arranged with few words, and those to the point. One side or the other, and this is mine, that which can be said in five minutes, why waste an hour talking about it? that which can be done to-day, why leave it until tomorrow? Of all roads the shortest is the best, but to come to the point, for I neither like circumlocution nor--"

"Really," said Anna, interrupting him, "you give occasion to suppose the contrary. Do come to the point, for you have kept me in suspense ever since you entered."

"Patience, patience! I can't fire myself off like a musket; by talking folks come to an understanding. What is there to hurry us? Good gracious! neighbor, if you are not all fire and tow, and as sudden as a flash. I was saying, Mrs. Gunpowder, that I had found only one method of keeping this skyrocket of mine from going off; and that is to take a step which sooner or later I should have taken; in a word, and to end the matter, I have come to ask of you your Elvira for my Ventura, hoping the son I offer you may be as much to your liking as the daughter I ask you for is to mine."

Anna did not attempt to hide the satisfaction she felt at the prospect of a union so suitable and equal in every respect, a union that had been foreseen by the parents, and was as much desired by them as by their children. Therefore, like the sensible people they were, they began at once to discuss the conditions of the contract.

"Neighbor," said Anna, "you know what we have as well as I do. The only question is how to divide it. This house has always gone to the oldest son; the vineyard belongs to Perico by right, because he has improved it, and has newly planted the greater part of it; my cows I give to him, because he has me to support while I live. The ass he needs."

"Would you tell me, companion of my sins," interrupted Pedro, "what remains to Elvira? for according to these dispositions, it appears to me she is coming from your hands as our mother Eve, may she rest in peace, came from those of the Creator."

"Elvira will have the olive-yard," answered Anna.

"That is the patrimony of a princess," exclaimed Uncle Pedro. "Go along! an olive-yard the size of a pocket handkerchief, which hardly yields oil enough for the lamp of the blessed sacrament."

"Twenty years ago it yielded more than a hundred arrobos," [Footnote 87] observed Anna.

"Neighbor," said Pedro, "that which was and is not, is the same as if it had never been; twenty years ago the girls were dying for me."

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"Forty years ago, you mean," Anna remarked.

"How very exact you are, neighbor," pursued Pedro. "Let us come to the point. Trees are as scarce in that yard as hairs on the head of Saint Peter, and those which remain are so dry that they look like church candlesticks."

"It is plain, my friend, that you have not seen them in a long time. Since Perico has known that the oliveyard was to be his sister's, the trees have been taken care of like rose-bushes in pots; each tree would shade a parade ground. Elvira will have, besides, the fields that skirt and that are watered by the brook which runs through them."

"And that are so parched and thirsty, you will take notice, because the brook is one half the year dry and the other half without water," added Pedro. "Let us understand each other. I like bread, bread, and wine, wine; neither bran in the one nor water in the other. Those fields, neighbor, are poor and unproductive; of no use, except for the asses to wallow in. But, since no one overhears us, did you not sell last year two fat hogs, each weighing fifteen arrobas, at a shilling a pound--calculate it, a hundred bushels of barley at fifteen shillings a bushel, a hundred skins of wine, and fifty of vinegar? Now this cat which you must have, shut up in a chest, without room to breathe, what better occasion could there be to give it the air? When his majesty, Charles V., came to Jerez (so the story goes) they offered him a rich wine. But such a wine! rather better than that of your grace's vineyard, and his majesty appears to have been a judge, for he praised the wine greatly. 'Sir,' said the Alcalde, so puffed up that his skin could scarce contain him, for you must know that the people of Jerez are more vain of their wine than I am of my son, 'permit me to inform your majesty that we have a wine even better than that.' 'Yes?' said the king; 'keep it then for a better occasion;' and this, neighbor, is the letter I write to you; it is for you to make the application."

"Which is," said Anna, "that all this money, and somewhat more, I have saved and put together for the daughter of my heart."

"That's what I call talking," exclaimed Pedro. "Upon my word, neighbor, you are worth a Peru. As for my Ventura, all I have is his, since Marcela wishes to take the veil, and you may be sure that he is not shirtless. He will have my house."

"A mere crib," said Anna.

"My asses."

"They are old"

"My goats."

"That do not make up to you in milk, cheeses, and kids, what they cost you in fines, they are so vicious."

"And my orchard," continued Pedro, without replying to the raillery with which Anna revenged herself for his jests.

In such discussion they arranged the preliminaries of the contract, remaining afterward, as they were before, the best friends in the world.

When Pedro had gone, Anna put on her woollen mantle, and repressing her grief, and hiding the extreme repugnance she felt, went to the house of her sister-in-law.

Maria, who professed for Anna, who was very kind to her, as much love as gratitude, and as much respect as veneration, received her with loquacious pleasure.

"It does one's eyes good to see you in this house," she exclaimed, as Anna entered. "What good thought has brought you, sister?"

And she hastened to place a chair for her guest.

Anna sat down, and made known the object of her visit.

The proposition so filled the poor woman with joy, that she could not find words to express herself.

"O my sister!" she exclaimed in broken sentences, "what good fortune! Perico! son of my heart! It is to Saint Antonio that I owe this good {507} fortune! And you, Anna, are you satisfied? Look here, sister: Rita, although forward, is really a good-hearted girl. She is wilful, but that is my fault. If I had brought her up as well as you have Elvira, she would be different. She is giddy, but you will see (with years and married life) how steady she will become. All these things are the effects of my spoiling and of her youth. Rita! Rita!" she cried, "come, make haste: here is your aunt--what do I say? your mother, she wishes to become, by marrying you to Perico."

Rita entered with the self-possession of a banker, and the composure of a diplomatist.

"What do you say, daughter?" cried the delighted mother.

"That I knew it," replied Rita.

"Go along," said the mother in an undertone, "if you are not as calm as if you were used to it, and cooler than a fresh lettuce."

"And what would you have me do--dance a fandango, because I am going to be married?" answered Rita, raising her voice.

Anna rose and went out. Maria, extremely mortified by her daughter's rudeness, went with her sister-in-law as far as the street, lavishing upon her a thousand expressions of endearment and gratitude.

CHAPTER V.

Preparations were being made for the weddings. That of Elvira and Ventura was to take place before that of Rita and Perico, as the former had not to wait for a dispensation from Rome.

Pedro wished his daughter Marcela to assist at her brother's marriage, before commencing her novitiate, and determined to go to Alcalá to bring her. Maria had a debt to collect there, and needing all her funds for the expected event, took advantage of her old friend's going to make the trip in company.

The ancient pair, mounted upon their respective asses, set out on their journey, crossing themselves, and Maria, the Christian soul, making a prayer to the holy archangel, Saint Raphael, patron of all travellers, from Tobias down to herself.

Maria, comfortably seated upon the the cushions of her saddle, dressed in a wide chintz skirt, which was plaited at the waist, a jacket of black woollen cloth, of which the closely fitting sleeves were fastened at the wrist by a row of silver buttons, and round her neck, a white muslin kerchief, pinned down at the back to keep it from touching her hair, looked like a burlesque, anticipated, upon the mode which was to rule among the fashionables thirty years later. A little shawl covered her head, the ends being tied under her chin.

Pedro wore, with some slight difference, the dress we have already described in speaking of his son. The cloth was coarser, the bolt black, as became a widower, his clothes all fitted more loosely, and his hat had a broader brim, and was without ornament.

"It is a day of flowers!" said Maria, "the fields are smiling, and the sun seems as if he were telling them to be gay."

"Yes," said Pedro, "the yellow-haired appears to have washed his face, and sharpened his rays, for they prick like pins."

He took out a little rabbit-skin bag, in which was tobacco, and began to make a cigarette.

"Maria," said he, when he had finished it, "my opinion is, that, you will come back from Alcalá with your hands as empty as they go. But, Christian woman, who the deuce tempted you to lend money to that vagabond? You knew that he had not so much as a place whereon to fall dead, and nothing in expectation but alternate rations of hunger and necessity."

"But," said Maria, "to whom shall we lend if not to the poor? the rich have no need to borrow."

{508}

"And don't you know, big innocent, that 'he who lends to a friend, loses both the money and the friend!' But you, Maria, are always so credulous, and I tell you now that this man will pay you in three instalments: 'badly, late, and never.'"

"You always think the worst, Pedro."

"That is the reason why I always hit the mark; think ill, and you will think the truth," said the crafty Pedro.

Presently he commenced droning a ballad, of which the interminable text is as follows:

Maria said nothing, nor did she think much more. Rocked by the quiet pace of her animal, she yielded herself to the indolence which the balmy spring day induced, and went along sleeping.

Half the road being passed, they came to a small inn. When they arrived some soldiers were lounging upon the brick seats which were fixed on each side of the door under the projecting roof. As soon as they perceived the approach of our venerable couple, they began to attack them with facetious sayings, burlesque provocations, and railleries, such as are usual among the country folk, and especially among the soldiers.

"Uncle," said one, "where are you going with that ancient relic?"

"Aunty," cried another "is the church where you were christened still standing?"

"Aunt," said another, "does your grace retain any recollection of the day you were married?"

"Uncle," asked the fourth, "are you going with this maiden to Alcalá to have the bans published?"

"No," answered Pedro, lazily dismounting, "I shall wait for that until I am of age, and the girl has her growth."

"Aunt," continued the soldiers, "shall we help you down from that gay colt?"

"It is the best thing you can do, my sons," responded the good woman.

The soldiers approached, and with kindly attention assisted her to alight.

Pedro found some acquaintances in the tavern who immediately asked him to drink with them. He did not wait to be urged, and having drank said to them:

"It is my turn now, and since I have accepted your treat, you, my friends, and these gentlemen, whom I know only to serve, will do me the favor to drink a small glass of anisete to my health."

"Uncle Pedro," said a young muleteer of Dos-Hermanas, "tell us a story; and I in the mean while will take care to keep your glass filled so that your throat don't get dry."

"Ah me!" exclaimed Aunt Maria, who after having drank her little glass of anisette [Footnote 88] had seated herself upon some bags of wheat, "have mercy on us, for if Pedro lets loose his boneless member, we shall not get back to our place to-night, at least, not without the miracle of Joshua."

"There is no danger, Maria," answered Pedro, "but you will sit on those sacks till the corn sprouts."

"Is it true, Uncle Pedro, what my mother says," asked the muleteer, "that in old times, when you were young, you were a lover of Maria's?"

"It is indeed, and I feel honored in saying it," answered Uncle Pedro.

"What a story!" exclaimed Aunt Maria, "it is a lie as big as a house. Go along with you, Pedro, for a boaster. I never had a lover in my life except my husband, 'may he rest in peace.'"

"O Mrs. Maria, Mrs. Maria!" said Pedro, "how very poor is your grace's memory! for you know the song--

{509}

"It is true," Maria answered, "that he made love to me one day at my cousin's wedding, and that he came one night to my window; but he got such a fright there that he left me planted, and ran away as if fear had lent wings to his feet; and I believe he never stopped until he ran his nose against the end of the world."

"How is that?" exclaimed the audience, laughing heartily; "is that the way you show your heels when you are frightened, Uncle Pedro?"

"I neither boast of my courage," replied the latter composedly, "nor do I wish to gain the palm from Francisco Esteban. "

"That is being more afraid than ashamed," said Aunt Maria, who was becoming impatient.

"You see, sirs," said Uncle Pedro, slyly winking, "that she has not yet forgiven me, which proves, does it not, that she was fond of me? But I should like to know," he proceeded, "which of you is the Cid Campeador that would like to have to do with beings of the other world; with supernatural things?"

"There was nothing more supernatural than your fears," interrupted Maria, "and they had no more cause than the rolling of a stone from the roof, by some cat that was keeping vigil."

"Tell us about it. Uncle Pedro, tell us how it happened," cried the audience.

"You must know then, sirs," began Uncle Pedro, "that the window Maria indicated to me, was at the back of the house. The house was in a lonesome place on the outskirts of the town; near by was a picture of purgatory, with a lamp burning before it. As I looked at the light, something which happened there a short time before came into mind. A milkman used to pass by the picture every night as he went out of town, carrying the empty skins which he brought in at sunrise every morning, filled with milk. When he came to this place, he did not scruple to lower the consecrated lamp to light his cigarette. One night, it was the eve of All Souls, when he had taken the lamp down, as was his custom, it went out, and he could not light his cigarette. He found it strange, for the wind slept, and the night was clear. But, what was his astonishment when a moment after, turning to look back, he saw the lamp lighted, and burning more brightly than ever. Recognizing in this a solemn warning from God--touched, and repenting of the profanation he had done--he made a vow to punish himself by never smoking another cigarette in his life; and, sirs," added Pedro, in a grave voice, "he has kept it."

Pedro paused, and for a moment all remained silent.

"This is an occasion," presently said Maria, "to apply the saying, that when a whole company is silent at once, an angel has passed by, and the breath of his wings has touched them with awe."

"Come, Uncle Pedro," said the muleteers, "let us hear the rest of the story."

"Well, sirs," proceeded Pedro, in his former jocose tone, "you must know that the lamp inspired me with great respect, mingled with not a little fear. Is it well, I said to myself, to come here and trifle under the very beards of the blessed souls that in suffering are expiating their sins? And I assure you, that light which was an offering to the Lord--which appeared to watch and to record--and seemed to be looking at me and rebuking me, was an object to impose respect. Sometimes it was sad and weeping like the De Profundis, at others immovable like the eye of the dead fixed upon me, and then the flame rose, and bent, and flickered, like a threatening finger of fire admonishing me.

{510}

"One night, when its regards appeared more threatening than ever before, a stone, thrown by an invisible hand, struck me on the head with such force that it left me stupefied; and when I started to run, though I was, as you might say, in open field, it happened with me as with that 'negro of evil fortune' who, where there were three doors to go out at, could not find one; and so, running as fast as I could, instead of coming to my house, I came to a quarry and fell in."

"I have always heard of that negro of evil fortune," said one of the listeners, "but could never find out how he came to be called so. Can you tell me?"

"I should think so!" answered Uncle Pedro.

"There was once a very rich negro who lived in front of the house of a fine young woman, with whom he fell in love. The young woman, vexed by the soft attentions and endearments of the fellow, laid the matter before her husband, who told her to make an appointment with the negro for that evening. She did so, and he came, bringing a world of presents. She received him in a drawing-room that had three doors. There she had a grand supper prepared for him. But they were hardly seated at the table when the light was put out, and the husband came in with a cowhide, with which he began to lash the negro's shoulders. The latter was so confounded that he could not find a door to escape through, and kept exclaiming as he danced under the blows:

"At last, he chanced upon one, and rushed out like the wind. But the husband was after him, and gave him a push that sent him from the top of the stairs to the bottom. A servant hearing the noise he made, ran to ask the cause. 'What would it be,' answered the black, 'but that I went up on my tiptoes and came down on my ribs?'

"Uncle Pedro," asked the muleteer, laughing, "was that the cause of your remaining estranged?"

"No," said Pedro, "eight days afterwards, I armed myself with courage and returned to the grating, but Maria would not open the window."

"Aunt Maria did not want you to be stoned to death like Saint Stephen," said the muleteer.

"It was not that, boy; the truth is, that Miguel Ortiz, who had just completed his term, returned to the place, and it suited Maria to forsake one and take up with another who----"

"Was not afraid," interrupted Maria, "to talk, with good intentions, to a girl in the neighborhood of a consecrated object; for, do you suppose that all those souls were spinsters?"

"I think so, Maria, because the married pass their purgatory in this world--the men, because their wives torment them, and the women, through what their children cause them to suffer. Well, sirs, I took the matter so to heart that I could not stay in Dos-Hermanas when the wedding was celebrated, and I went to Alcalá."

"Where he remembered me so well, that he came back married to another."

"It is true, for I have always thought it best 'when one king is dead, to set up another.'"

"Ah Pedro! everlasting talker," said Maria getting up, "let us go."

"Yes, let us go; for the sun is as hot as if he were flying away from the clouds, and I think it will rain."

"God forbid!" exclaimed Maria, "give us the sun and wasps though they sting!"

"Why should it rain, since we are in March?" put in the muleteer.

"And don't you know, Jose" replied Uncle Pedro, "that January promised a lamb to March, but when March arrived the lambs were so fat and fine that January would not fulfil the promise? Then March was vexed and said to him,

{511}

"And so let us be off. Good-by, gentlemen."

"What a hurry you are in, Aunt Maria!" said the muleteer. "Are you afraid you shall take root?"

"No, but these asses of ours do not go like yours, Jose."

"That is so," said Pedro as he assisted Maria to mount; "with us, all is old--the horsewoman, her squire, and the steeds. My ass is so judicious that she cannot make up her mind upon which foot to limp, and therefore limps on all four; and that of Maria so old, that, if she could speak, she would say 'thee and thou' to us all. Well, gentlemen, your commands."

"Health and dimes to you, Uncle Pedro."

Our travellers took the road again, and when they reached Alcalá, separated to attend to their respective affairs.

An hour afterward they rejoined each other. Pedro came accompanied by his daughter, who threw herself upon Maria's neck with that tender sentimentality of young girls whose hearts have not been bruised, wounded, or chilled, by contact with the world.

"You have collected your money?" questioned Pedro, as though he doubted it.

"They offered me half now," answered Maria, "or the whole after harvest; and, as I am in want of my dimes, I preferred the former."

"Not Solomon, Maria! not even Solomon! could have acted more wisely; for, 'blessed is he that possesses,' and 'one bird in the hand is worth a hundred on the wing.'"

Pedro took his daughter up behind him, and they set out--Maria taking care of her money; Marcela of the flowers, spices, cakes, and sweetmeats she had bought as gifts; and Pedro looking after them both.

CHAPTER VI.

The arrival of Marcela caused great joy to all except Rita, who neither wished nor tried to hide the ill-humor she felt in the presence of one who had been destined by both families to be the wife of Perico.

This hostile disposition, and the cold reserve which Rita imposed upon Perico in his intercourse with Marcela, were the first frosts which had ever fallen upon the springtime of that pure spirit.

Marcela was far from suspecting the base and bitter sentiments of Rita, and besides, she would not have understood them; for, though a young woman, she had the soul of a child. Having lived in the convent from her birth, she had created for herself a sweet existence, which could not be enlarged by the interests and passions of life, except at the cost of innocence and happiness. She loved her good religious, her garden, her gentle and peaceful duties. She was attached to her devotions, to her church, and to her blessed images. She wished to be a nun, not from spiritual exaltation, but because she liked the life; not from misanthropy, but with joy of heart; not because she was without convenient place or position in the world, which many believe to be a motive for taking the veil, but because her position, her place, she found--and preferred it--in the convent.

This is what many do not, or pretend not to comprehend. Everything can be understood in this world; all vices; all irregularities; all the most atrocious inclinations; even the propensity of the Anthropophagi; but that the desire for a tranquil and retired life, without care for the present, or thought for the future, can exist, is denied, is incomprehensible.

In the world everything is believed in--the masculine woman, the morality of stealing, the philanthropy of the guillotine, in the inhabitants of the moon, and other humbugs, as the English say; or canards, as our neighbors have it; or bubbles and fables, as we call them. The satirical sceptic, called the world, has a throat {512} down which all these can pass, for there is nothing so credulous as incredulity, nor so superstitious as irreligion. But it does not believe in the instincts of purity, in modest desires, in humble hearts, and in religious sentiments. No indeed; the existence of these is all humbug, a bubble which it cannot receive. This monster has not a throat wide enough for these.

Marcela, accompanied by Anna and Elvira, made her first visit to the church, and to the chapel of Saint Anna, into which the good wife of the sacristan hastened to lead them.

The chapel is deep and narrow; at the extremity is an altar and the effigy of the saint. In a crystal urn, inserted into the altar, is seen a wooden cross and a small bell. The effigy of Saint Anna is very ancient; its lower part widens in the form of a bell, upon its breast it bears an image of the Blessed Virgin, which in the same manner bears that of the child Jesus. The remote origin stamped upon this effigy, uniting antiquity of idea with age of material, gives, as it were, wings to the devotion it inspires with which to rise and free itself from all present surroundings. On the wall, at the right hand, hang two large pictures. In one is seen an angel, appearing to two girls, and in the other the same girls, in a wild and solitary place, with a man who is digging a hole in the earth.

On the left hand an iron railing surrounds the entrance to a cave, the descent into which is by a narrow stairway.

Marcela and her companions having performed their devotions, seated themselves in some low chairs which the sacristan's wife placed for them under the arbor in the court-yard, and Marcela asked the obliging and kindly woman to explain to them the two pictures which they had seen in the chapel. The good creature, who loved to tell the story, began it very far back, and related it in the following words.

POPULAR TRADITION OF DOS-HERMANAS.

"In times the memory of which is almost lost, a wicked king, Don Rodrigo, ruled in Spain. It was then customary for the nobles of the realm to send their daughters to court, and therefore the noble count, Don Julian, sent his fair daughter Florinda, known as La Cava. When the king saw her he was inflamed with passion, but she being virtuous, the king obtained by violence that which he could not by consent. When the beautiful Florinda saw herself dishonored, she wrote to the Count--with blood and tears she wrote it, in these words:

"'Father, your honor and mine are blemished; more to your renown would it have been, and better for me, if you had killed me, instead of bringing me here. Come and avenge me.'

"When the Count, Don Julian, read the letter, he fell down in a swoon, and when he came to himself he swore, upon the cross of his sword, to take a vengeance the like of which had never been heard of, and one proportioned to the offence.

"With this intention, he treated with the Moors and gave up to them Tarifa and Algeciras, and like a swollen river which breaks its embankments they inundated Andalusia. They reached Seville, known in those times as Hispalis, and this place, then called Oripo. The Christians, before they fled, buried deep in the earth the venerated image of their patroness Saint Anna. And there it remained five hundred years, until the good king Fernando, having made himself master of the surrounding country, invested Seville. Here, however, the Moors made such a stubborn resistance that the spirit of the monarch began to fail him. Then, in the tower of Herveras, now fallen to ruin, Our Blessed Mother appeared to him in a dream, animating his valor, and promising him victory. The good king returned to his camp at Alcalá with renewed courage. He summoned all the artificers that could {513} be found, and commanded them to make an image, as nearly as possible in the likeness of his vision, but to his great chagrin no one succeeded.

"There then presented themselves, two beautiful youths, dressed like pilgrims, offering to make an image in every particular like the form the good king had seen in his vision. They were conducted to a workshop in which they found prepared for them everything necessary for their work. The following day, when the king, stimulated by his impatience, went in to see how the work was progressing, the pilgrims had disappeared. The materials were lying on the floor untouched, and upon an altar was an image of our Lady, just as she had appeared to him in his sleep. The king, recognizing the intervention of the angels, knelt weeping before the image he had wished for so much, and which, by the hands of angels, their Queen herself had sent him.

"Afterward, when the pious chief had reduced Seville, he caused this image to be placed in a triumphal car drawn by six white horses, his majesty walking behind with naked feet, and deposited in the cathedral of Seville, where it is still venerated, and where it will continue to be venerated until the end of time, under the invocation of our Lady of Kings. In her chapel, at her feet, lies the body of the sainted monarch--relics, of the possessions of which all Spain may well envy Seville.

"Soon after the appearance of the vision, the king with great confidence in the help of God prepared to make another attack. He posted himself upon the neighboring heights of Buena Vista: the two wings of his brave army extending on both sides, like two arms ready to do his will. But the troops were so weary, and so faint from heat and thirst, that they had neither strength nor spirit left. In this strait, the good king built up an altar of arms, upon which he placed an image of the Blessed Virgin which he always carried with him, calling upon her in these words, 'Aid me! aid me! Holy Mother, for if by thy help I set up the cross to-day in Seville, I promise to build thee a chapel in this very spot, in which thou shalt be venerated, and I will deposit in it the standards under which the city shall be gained.' As he prayed, a beautiful spring began to flow at the foot of the ridge, sending forth in different directions seven streams. It flows still, and bears the name of The King's Fountain.

"Men and horses refreshed themselves, and recovered strength and courage. Seville was won, and the Moorish King Aixa came bearing the keys of the city upon a golden salver, and presented them to the pious conqueror. They are kept with other precious relics in the treasury of the cathedral.

"In those times," proceeded the narrator, "there lived in the province of Leon two devout sisters, named Elvia and Estefania, to whom an angel appeared and told them to set out for the purpose of finding an image of Our Lady which the Christians had hidden under the earth. The father of the devout maidens, Gomez Mazereno, who was as pious as they were, wished to go with them. But on setting out they were in great trouble, not knowing what direction to take. Then they heard the sound of a bell in the air. They saw no bell, but followed the ringing until they came to this place, where it seemed to go down into the ground at their feet. This was then an uncultivated waste of matted thorns and briers, and was called 'The Invincible Thicket,' because the Moors, who had all these lands under cultivation could never cut it down; for, unseen by them, an angel guarded it with a drawn sword in his hand. They began zealously to dig, and digging came to a large flat stone, which being lifted, they discovered the entrance to a cave--the same that you saw in the chapel. In it they found the image of the saint, a cross, the {514} small bell, which, like the star of the eastern kings had led them here, and a lamp still burning--the very lamp that lights the saint now, for it hangs in the chapel before her altar! For more than a thousand years it has burned in veneration of our patroness. They took up her image and raised this chapel in her name. Houses were built and clustered together round it, until this village, which takes the name of Dos-Hermanas from its founders, was formed under its shelter. See," continued the good woman, rising and reentering the chapel, "see here the image which nothing has been able to injure; neither the dampness of the earth, nor dust of the air, nor the canker of time. In these two pictures are the portraits of the devout sisters." A great quantity of offerings were seen hanging on both sides of altar. Of these seven little silver legs, tied together and suspended by a rose-colored ribbon, attracted Marcela's attention.

"What is the meaning of that offering?" she asked of the sacristan's wife.

"Marcos, the blacksmith, brought them here. It happened, one day, that the poor fellow was seized with such violent pains in his legs, that it seemed as though he could neither live nor die.

"His wife having administered to him without effect all the remedies that were ordered, took him, stretched upon a cart, to Seville. But neither could the doctors there do anything to relieve him. One day, after the unfortunate man had spent all he possessed in remedies, made desperate by his suffering, and by the cries of his children for the bread which he had not to give them, he lifted his broken heart to God, claiming as his intercessor our blessed patroness Saint Anna, praying with fervor to be made well until such time as his children should no longer need him; adding: When my children are grown up I will die without murmuring. And if, until then, I regain my health, I promise, Blessed Saint, to hang, every year, a little silver leg upon thy altar, in attestation of the miracle.' The next day Marcos came on foot to give thanks to God. Years passed. The sons of Marcos had grown up and were earning their living. There remained with him only a young daughter. She had a lover who asked her of her father. The wedding was gay, only Marcos seemed to be in deep thought On the following day he took his bed, from which he never rose. What he asked had been granted. His task was done."

"And these ears of grain?" said Marcela, seeing a bunch of wheat tied with a blue ribbon.

"They were brought by Petrola, the wife of Gomez. These poor people had only the daily wages of the father for the support of eight children. They had begged the use of a small field to sow with wheat, and in it were sown also their hopes. With what pleasure they watched it, and with what satisfaction! for it repaid their care, growing so luxuriantly that it looked as if they sprinkled it every morning with blessed water. One day a neighbor came from the field and told the poor woman that the locust was in her wheat. The locust! One of the plagues of Egypt! It was as if a bolt from heaven had struck her. Leaving her house and her little ones, she rushed out wildly, with her arms extended and not knowing what she did. 'Saint Anna,' she cried, 'my children's bread! my children's bread!' She reached the field and saw in one corner the track of the locust. This insect destroys the blades from the foot without leaving a sign. But between its track and the rest of the field an invisible wall had been raised to protect the wheat of the pious mother who invoked the saint, and the locust had disappeared. You can imagine the delight and gratitude of the good woman, who was so poor that she testified it by the gift of these few blades of the precious grain."

{515}

Anna, Elvira, and Marcela listened with softened and fervent hearts, and eyes moistened with tears. With the same emotions the relation has been transmitted to paper. God grant that it may be read in like spirit!

CHAPTER VII.

May smiled. Golden with sunlight, noisy with the song of its birds and the murmur of its insects; odorous with its flowers, laughing, and happy to be the month, of all others, dedicated to Mary.

The wedding day of Ventura and Elvira had arrived, and the sun, like a friend that hastened to be the first to give them joy, rose radiant. They were ready to set out for the church. Anna pressed to her heart the child of her love, the gentle Elvira, so humble and thoughtful in her gladness that she stood with drooping head and eyes cast down, as if oppressed and dazzled by so much joy. Uncle Pedro, who had never been so glad in all his life, exceeded even himself in jokes, hints, and facetious sayings. Maria, transported with her own delight, and that of others, shed tears continually--tears, like the rain drops, which sometimes fall from a clear sky when the sun is bright.

As his rays shine through those drops, so shone Maria's smile through her tears.

"Dear sister," said Marcela to Elvira, "next to mine, my sweet Jesus, your bridegroom is the best and most perfect. See my Ventura, how well he appears; if he had only a spray of lilies in his hand, he would look like Saint Joseph in 'The Espousals.'"

And she had reason to praise her brother, for Ventura, neatly and richly dressed, more animated and gallant than ever, hurrying the others to set out, was the type a sculptor would have chosen for a statue of Achilles.

Perico forgot even Rita. His large, soft brown eyes were fixed upon his sister with a look of deep and inexplicable tenderness. Rita only was indifferent and petulant.

They were leaving the house when a strange sound reached their ears. A sound which seemed to be made up of the bellowing of the enraged bull, the lamentations of the wounded bird, and the growl of the lion surprised in his sleep.

It was the cry of alarm and rage of the flocks of fugitives that were arriving, and the exclamations of astonishment and indignation of the people of the village that were preparing to imitate them.

The French had entered Seville with giant strides, and were hurrying on in their devastating march toward Cadiz.

Perico having foreseen this event, had prepared a place of refuge for his family, in a solitary farm-house, far apart from any public way, and had horses standing in the stables ready against surprise.

While the men rushed into the yard to prepare the animals, the women, wild with fear, gathered and tied together the clothes and whatever else they could carry with them in the panniers.

"What a sad omen!" said Elvira to Ventura; "the day which should join us together separates us."

"Nothing can separate us, Elvira," answered Ventura; "I defy the whole world to do it. Go without fear. We are going to prepare ourselves, and shall overtake you on the road."

Ventura saw them depart under the protection of Perico, and watched them until they were out of sight.

But now was heard at the entrance of the village the fatal sound of drums, which announced the arrival of the terrible phalanx that threw itself upon that poor unarmed people, taken by surprise, and treated without mercy.

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It came in the name of an iniquitous usurpation of which the precedents belong to barbarous times, as the resistance it met with belongs to the days of heroism--a resistance against which it dashed and was broken, fighting without glory and yielding without shame.

"Follow me, father," said Ventura. "Sister, come; we must fly!"

"It is too late," replied Pedro, "they are already here. Ventura, hide your sister; when night comes we will escape, but now hide yourselves."

"And you, father?" said Ventura, hesitating between necessity and the repugnance he felt to being obliged to hide himself.

"I," answered Pedro, "remain here. What can they do to a poor old man like me? Go, I tell you! Hide yourselves! Marcela, what are you doing there, poor child, as cold and fixed as a statue? Ventura, what are you thinking of that you do not move? Do you wish to be lost? Do you wish to lose your sister? Ventura! dear son, do you wish to kill me?"

His father's cry of anguish roused Ventura from the stupor into which he had been thrown by fear, uncertainty, and rage.

"It is necessary," he murmured, with clenched hands, and set teeth. "Father, father! to hide myself like a woman! while I live I shall never get over the shame of it!" and taking a ladder, he lifted it to an opening in the ceiling, which formed the entrance to a sort of loft or garret, where they kept seeds, and worn-out and useless household articles, helped his sister to mount, went up himself, and drew the ladder after him.

It was time, for there was a knocking at the door. Pedro opened it, and a French soldier entered.

"Prepare me," he said in his jargon, "food and drink: give me your money, unless you want me to take it, and call your daughters, if you do not wish me to look them up."

The blood of the honorable and haughty Spaniard rose to his face, but he answered with moderation,

"I have nothing that you ask me for."

"Which means that you have nothing, you thief? Do you know whom you are talking to, and that I am hungry and thirsty?"

Pedro, who had expected to pass the whole of this long wished-for day of his son's marriage in Anna's house, and had therefore nothing prepared, approached the door which communicated with the interior of the house, and pointing to the extinguished hearth, repeated, "As I have already told you, there is nothing to eat in the house, except bread."

"You lie!" shouted the Frenchman in a rage; "it is because you do not mean to give it to me."

Pedro fixed his eyes upon the grenadier, and in them burned, for an instant all the indignation, all the rage, all the resentment he harbored in his soul; but a second thought, at which he shuddered, caused him to lower them, and say in a conciliating tone:

"Satisfy yourself that I have told you the truth."

On hearing this continued refusal, the soldier, already exasperated by the glance Pedro had cast at him, approached the old man and said; "You dare to face me; you refuse to comply with your obligation to supply me. Ha! and worse than all, you insult me with your tranquil contempt. Upon my life, I will make you as pliant as a glove!" and raising his hand, there resounded through the house, dry and distinct, a blow on the face.

Like an eagle darting upon its prey, Ventura dropped down, threw himself upon the Frenchman, forced the sword from his hand, and ran it through his body. The soldier fell heavily, a lifeless bulk.

"Boy, boy, what have you done?" exclaimed the old man, forgetting the affront in the peril of his son.

"My duty, father."

"You are lost!"

"And you are avenged."

"Go, save yourself! do not lose an instant."

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"First, let me take away this debtor, whose account is settled. If they find him here, you will have to suffer, father."

"Never mind, never mind," exclaimed the father, "save yourself, that is the first thing to be thought of."

Without listening to his father. Ventura took the corpse upon his shoulder, threw it into the well, turned to the old man, who followed him in an agony of distress, asked for his blessing, sprang with one bound, upon the wall which surrounded the yard, and to the ground on the other side. The poor father, mounted upon the trunk of a fig-tree, holding on by its branches, with bursting heart, and straining eyes, and breath suspended, saw his son, the idol of his soul, pass with the lightness of a deer, the space which separated the village from an olive plantation, and disappear among the trees.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[ORIGINAL.]