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

Autumn had shortened the days, and winter was knocking at the door with fingers of ice. It was the hour when laborers return to their homes, and the sun casts a last cold glance upon the earth he is abandoning.

Perico came slowly, preceded by his ass, and followed by Melampo, who rivalled his ancient friend and companion in gravity. The latter still remembered with horror the entry of the French, though six years had passed since; for the flight of her masters caused her the wildest gallop she had taken in her whole life. She had not yet recovered from the fatigue.

When they entered their street, two little children, brother and sister, ran to meet Perico, but at the moment they reached him, the deep and solemn sound of a bell called to prayer. Perico stood still and uncovered his head. The ass and the dog, that from long habit knew the sound, stopped also, and the little ones remained immovable. When their father had concluded the prayers of the mystery of the annunciation, the children drew near and said--

"Your hand, father."

"May God make you good!" answered Perico, blessing his children.

The boy, who was impatient to be mounted on the ass, asked his father why people must be still when the bell rung for prayer.

"Don't you remember," said his sister Angela, "what Aunt Elvira tells us, that when it strikes this hour dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, our guardian angels stand still, and if we go on then, we shall be alone--without them?"

"That is true, sister," answered the boy, giving, with all his little might, a blow to the ass upon which his father had placed him, a blow of which, fortunately, the patient creature took not the least notice.

Six years had passed since the occurrence of the sorrowful events we have related. To make the remembrance of them still more sorrowful, the unhappy Marcela, who witnessed from her hiding-place the insult to her {661} father, the terrible vengeance taken by her brother, and the flight of the latter, had gone mad.

No tidings of Ventura had ever been received, and all believed that he was dead. Notwithstanding, in their tenderness for Elvira and their friendship for Pedro, the others spoke to them in the words of a hope which did not exist in their own hearts.

Time, the great dissolvent, in which joys and griefs alike are lost--as in water disappear both the sugar and the salt--had made those memories, if not less bitter, at least more endurable. Only from Pedro's lips, instead of his lively songs and habitual jokes, was often heard, "My poor son! my poor daughter!"

Elvira, alone, was excepted from this influence of time. She was wasting in silence, like those light clouds in the sky, which, instead of falling to the earth in noisy torrents, rise softly and gradually until they are lost from sight. She never complained, nor did the name of Ventura, of him upon whom she had looked as the companion the church would give her, pass her lips.

"A worm is gnawing at her heart," said Anna to her son; "the rest do not see it, but it is not hidden from me."

"But, mother," he answered, "where do you see it? She complains perhaps?"

"No, my son, no: but, Perico, a mother hears the voice of the dumb daughter," replied Anna with sadness.

Rita and Perico were happy, because Perico, with his loving heart, his sweet temper, and his conciliatory character, made the happiness of both. A year after their marriage, Rita had given birth to twins. On that occasion, she was at death's door, and owed her life to the tender care of her husband and his family. She remained for a long time feeble and ailing, but at the moment in which we take up the thread of our story, she was entirely restored, and the roses of youth and health bloomed more brightly than ever upon her countenance.

When they were reunited that evening, Maria exclaimed: "Blessed mother, what a fearful storm we had last night! I was so frightened that my very bed shook with me! I recalled all my sins and confessed them to God. I prayed so much that I think I must have awakened all the saints: and I prayed loud, for I have always heard say that the lightning loses its power from where the voice of praying reaches. To the Moors! To the Moors! I said to the tempest, go to the Moors, that they may be converted and tremble at the wrath of God! Not until day-break, when I saw the rainbow, was I consoled: for it is the sign God gives to man that he will not punish the world with another flood. Why do men not fear when they see these warnings of God!"

"And why would you have them tremble, mother, for a thing which is natural," said Rita.

"Natural!" retorted Maria. "Perhaps you will also tell me that pestilence and war are natural! Do you know what the lightning is? For I heard a farmer say that it is a fragment of the air set on fire by the wrath of God. And where does not the air enter? And where is the place the wrath of God does not reach? And the thunder--the thunder, said a certain preacher, is the voice of God in his magnificence; and that God is to be feared above all when it thunders."

"The rain has been welcome, Mamma Maria, for the ground is thirsty," said Perico.

"The ground is always thirsty," observed Rita, "as thirsty as a sot."

"Father," said Angela, "hear what I sung to-day when I saw the pewets running to the pools," and the little girl began to sing:

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Angel, not wishing to let his sister, who was the brighter of the two, gain the palm--instantly said: "And I, father, sung:

"Enough, enough," cried Rita, "you are as noisy as two cicadas, and more tiresome than frogs."

"May we play a game, mother?" said the boy.

"Play with the cat's tail," responded Rita.

"Mamma Maria," said the girl, "I will say the catechism to you, if you will tell us a story. Now hear me: 'The enemies of the soul are three, the devil, the world, and the flesh.'"

"I like that enemy," said the boy.

"Hush, little one; it don't mean the flesh in the stew."

"What then?" asked the boy.

"Learn the words now," answered his grandmother, "and when you know more, apply what you have learned. For the present, I will tell you that your flesh, that is to say, your appetite, tempts you to be so gluttonous, and that gluttony is a mortal sin."

"They are seven," said the girl quickly, and recited them.

"I, Mamma Maria," said Angel, "know the Three Persons, the Father who is God, the Son who is God, and the Holy Ghost, who is a dove."

"How stupid you are!" exclaimed his mother.

"Daughter," remarked Maria, "no one is born instructed. Child," she continued, "the Dove is a symbol, the Holy Spirit is God, the same as the Father and the Son."

Each child pulling at its grandmother as it spoke:

"I know the commandments of God," said one.

"And I, those of the church," said the other.

"I the sacraments."

"And I the gifts of the Holy Spirit."

"I--"

"Enough, and too much," exclaimed Rita; "you are going to say the whole catechism; or perhaps this is an infant school! What a pleasant diversion!"

"Is it possible," said Maria, grieved, for she had been in her glory listening to the children, "is it possible, Rita, that you do not love to hear the word of God, and that it does not delight you in the mouths of your children? I remember how I cried for joy, the first time you said the whole of Our Father."

"That is so," said Rita; "you are capable of crying at a fandango."

The poor mother did not answer; but, turning to the children, said: "I am so pleased with you because you know the catechism so well, that I am going to tell you the prettiest story I know."

The children seated themselves on a low bench in front of their grandmother, who began her story thus:

"When the angel warned the holy patriarch Joseph to flee into Egypt, the saint got his little ass and set the mother and child upon it. Then they started on their journey through woods and briery fields. Once, when they were in the thickest part of a forest, the lady was afraid because the way was so dark and lonesome. By and by they came to a cave. Out of it ran a band of robbers and surrounded the holy family. When the mother and child were going to get down from the ass, the captain of the band, whose name was Demas, looked at the child; as he looked, his heart smote him, and he turned to his companions and said: 'Whoever touches as much as a thread of this lady's garment will have me to do with,' and then he said to the holy pair: 'The night is coming on stormy; follow me, and I will shelter you.' They went with the robber, and he gave them to eat and drink, and the holy pair accepted what he offered them, for God himself receives the worship of all the bad as well as {663} the good. And for this reason, children, never cease to pray, even though you should be in mortal sin; for this robber, when at last he was taken and condemned to die, found repentance and pardon on the cross itself, which served him for expiation, as it served our Lord for sacrifice. He was converted and was the first of all to enter into glory, as Christ promised him when he was dying for him." Meantime, the wind howled without in prolonged gusts. The doors shook, moved by an invisible hand. The old orange-tree murmured in the court, as if remonstrating with the wind for disturbing its calm.

"Listen," said Perico, "the very nettles will be swept from the ground."

"And how it rains!" added Pedro. "The clouds are torn to bits. The river is going to overflow the fields."

"Did you see how the clouds ran this afternoon?" said Angela to her brother. "They looked like greyhounds."

"Yes," answered the boy, "and where were they going?"

"To the sea for water."

"Is there so much water in the sea?"

"Yes indeed, and more than there is in Uncle Pedro's pond."

"The voice of the wind seems to me like the voice of the evil spirit, that comes leading fear by the hand," said Maria.

"You are always frightened, mother," remarked Rita. "I don't know when your spirit will rest. Look here, lazy-bones," she proceeded, giving a push to the boy who had reclined against her, "lean upon what you have eaten."

The child, being half asleep, lost his balance. Elvira gave a cry, and Perico, springing forward, caught him in his arms. Anna dropped her distaff, but took it up again without a word.

"If you ever lose your son," said Pedro, indignant, "you will not weep for him as I do for mine. You have that advantage over me."

"She is so quick, so hasty," said Maria, always ready to excuse and slow to blame, "that she keeps me in hot water."

"So, then, Mamma Maria," Perico hastened to say, "yon are afraid of everything--and witches?"

"No; oh! no, my son! The church forbids the belief in witches and enchanters. I fear those things which God permits to punish men, and, above all, when they are supernatural."

"Are there any such things? Have you seen any?" asked Rita.

"If there are any? And do you doubt that there are extraordinary things?"

"Not at all. One of them is the day you do not preach me a sermon. But the supernatural I don't believe in. I am like Saint Thomas."

"And you glory in it! It is a wonder you do not say also that you are like Saint Peter in that in which he failed!"

"But, madam, have you seen anything of the kind, or is it only because you can swallow everything, like a shark?"

"It is the same, to all intents, as if I had seen it."

"Aunt, what was it?" asked Elvira.

"My child," said the good old woman, turning toward her niece, "in the first place, that which happened to the Countess of Villaoran. Her ladyship herself told it to me when we were superintending her estate of Quintos. This lady had the pious custom of having a mass said for condemned criminals at the very hour they were being executed. When the infamous Villico was in those parts, committing so much iniquity, she allowed herself to say that if he should be taken, she would not send to have a mass said for him, as she had for others. And when he was executed, she kept her word.

"Not long alter, one night when she was sleeping quietly, she was awakened by a pitiful voice near the head of her bed, calling her by name. She sat up in bed terrified, but saw {664} nothing, though the lamp was burning on the table. Presently she heard the same voice, even more pitiful than at first, calling her from the yard, and before she had fairly recovered from her surprise, she heard it a third time, and from a great distance, calling her name. She cried out so loudly that those who were in the house ran to her room, and found her pale and terrified. But no one else had heard the voice.

"On the following day, hardly were the candles lighted in the churches when a mass was being offered for the poor felon, and the countess, on her knees before the altar was praying with fervor and penitence, for the clemency of God, which is not like that of men, excludes none. And now Rita, what do you think?"

"I think she dreamed it."

"Goodness, goodness! what incredulity," said Uncle Pedro. "Rita will be like that Tucero, who, the preachers say, separated from the church."

"Ave Maria! Do not say that, Pedro," exclaimed Maria, "even in exaggeration! Mercy! you may well say, what perverseness, for she talks so just to be contrary."

A noise in the direction of the door which opened into the back-yard, caused Maria's lips to close suddenly.

"What is that?" she said.

"Nothing, Mamma Maria," answered Perico, laughing; "what would it be? The wind which goes about to-night moving everything."

"Mother," said Angela, "hold me in your lap, as father does Angel, for I am afraid."

"This is too much," exclaimed Rita, who was in bad humor. "Go along and sit on the lap of earth, and don't come back till you bring grandchildren."

"I should like to know," said Pedro, "if those who laugh at that which others fear have never felt dread."

"Perico! Perico!" cried Maria, in terror, "there is a noise in the yard."

"Mamma Maria, you are excited and frightened. Don't you hear that it is the water in the gutter?"

"I, for my part," said Pedro, in a low voice, as if to himself, "ever since there was a stain of blood in my house--"

"Pedro! Pedro! are we always to go back to that? Why will you make yourself wretched? Of what use is it to return to the past, for which there is no remedy?" said Anna.

"The truth is, Anna, what I suffer at times overwhelms me, and I must give it vent. Often at night, when I am alone in my house, it falls upon me. Anna, believe me, many a night, when all is still and sleep flies from me, I see him; yes, I see him--the grenadier my son slew. I see him just as I saw him alive, in his grey capote and fur cap, rise out of the well and come into the room where he was killed, to look for the stains of his own blood. I sec him before my eyes, tall, motionless, terrible."

At this moment the door opened, and a figure, tall, motionless, terrible, with a grey capote and a grenadier's cap stood upon the threshold.

All remained for an instant confounded and fixed in their places.

"God protect us!" exclaimed Maria. Angel clung to his father's breast, Angela to the skirts of her grandmother.

"Ventura!" murmured Elvira, as her eyes closed and her head fell upon her mother's bosom.

The woman for whom there had been no forgetfulness, had recognized him.

Pedro rose impetuously and would have fallen, the poor old man not having strength to sustain himself; but Ventura, who had thrown off his cap and capote, sprung forward and caught him in his arms. The scene which followed, a scene of confusion, of broken words, of exclamations of surprise and delight, of tears and fervent thanks to heaven, is more easily comprehended than described.

When Ventura had freed himself from the embrace of his father, who was long in undoing his arms from {665} the neck of the son whom he could hardly persuade himself he held in them, he fixed his eyes upon Elvira. She was still supported by her mother, who held to her nostrils a handkerchief wet with vinegar. But she was no longer the Elvira he had left at his departure. Pale, attenuated, changed, she appeared as if bidding farewell to life. Ventura's brilliant eyes became softened and saddened with an expression of deep feeling, and, with the frank sincerity of a countryman, he said to her:

"Have you been sick, Elvira? You do not look like yourself."

"Now she will be better," exclaimed Pedro, in whom joy had awakened some of the old festive teasing humor. "Your absence, Ventura, and not hearing from you, nothing less, has brought her to this. Why, in heaven's name, did you not send us a letter, to tell us where you were?"

"Why, our sergeant wrote at least six for me," replied Ventura, "and besides, I have been in France, I have been a prisoner. All that is long to tell--But how well you look, Rita," he said, regarding the latter, who, from the moment he entered, had not taken her eyes from the gallant youth, whom the moustache, the uniform, and the military bearing became so well. "Bless me! but you have become a fine woman! The good care Perico takes of you--and you Perico, always digging? Are these your children? How handsome they are! God bless them! Hey! come here, I am not a Frenchman nor a bluebeard."

Ventura sat down to caress the children. Maria, coming behind him at this moment, caught his head in her hands, and covered his face with tears and kisses--Ventura in the mean while saying, "Maria, how much you have prayed for me! I suppose you have made a hundred novenas, and more than a thousand promises."

"Yes, my son, and to-morrow I shall sell my best hen, to have said in Saint Anna's chapel the thanksgiving mass I have promised."

"Aunt Anna is the one who has nothing to say," observed Ventura. "Are you not glad to see me, madam?"

"Yes my son, yes; I was minding my Elvira. God knows," she continued, observing the pallid countenance of her child, "how glad I am of your return, and what thanks I give him for it, if it is for the best."

"And why not," exclaimed Pedro, "for the best? for all except my kids and your fowls, which are going to give up the ghost within a month, the time it will take to publish the bans."

"Don't be so hasty," answered Anna, smiling, "a wedding, neighbor, is not a fritter to be turned, tossed, and fried in a moment."

"Well, 'every owl to his own olive,'" said Pedro after a while. "Good people, there is a wicket in the street that is tired of being solitary."

"To-night, Uncle Pedro," said Rita, laughing, "the horrors will go to the bottom of the well with the Frenchman, never to return."

"Amen, amen. I hope so," responded the good old man.

CHAPTER IX.

The next evening, Ventura brought with him to their reunion a small black water-dog, called Tambor. Never before had a strange dog been permitted at one of those meetings, so that he had hardly entered, wagging his tail, well washed, well combed, and with all the confidence of an exquisite, when Melampo, who held these graces to be of very little consequence, and an idler in lowest estimation, flew at him with might and main, and with a single blow of his paw flattened the creature; but without the remotest ambition to affect in this action, either the attitude or the air of the lion of Waterloo.

"In the first place," said Perico, "will you tell me, Ventura, how you managed to appear here yesterday, as if you had leaked through the roof, without any one's opening the door to you?"

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"Well, it is difficult to guess," answered Ventura. "When I arrived I went to the house, and Aunty Curra, to whom my father gives a home for taking care of him, opened the door, and to get here sooner, and take you all by surprise, I jumped over the wall of the yard, as I used to when I was a boy."

"I was sure last night," observed Maria, "that I heard the door of the enclosure, and some one walking in the yard."

"Now,"' said Perico, "tell us what has happened to you. Have you been wounded?'

"He has been wounded," cried Uncle Pedro. "Look at his breast, and you win see a hole, which is the scar left by a ball that he received there, and that did not lay him dead, thanks to this button which deadened its force. See how it is flattened and hollowed out like the pan of a fire-lock. Look at his arm; look at the wound--"

"And what matter, father," interrupted Ventura, "since they are cured now?"

"When I ran," he continued, "I took my course down river, reached Sanlácar, and embarked for Cadiz. There I enlisted in the regiment of guards commanded by the Duke del Infantado. I struck up a friendship with a young man of noble family, who was serving as a private, and we loved each other like brothers. We soon embarked for Tarifa, for the purpose of approaching the French in the rear, while the English attacked them in front. The result was the battle of Barrosa, from which the French fled to Jerez, and we took possession of their camp.

"In the midst of the fight, I said to my friend, 'Come, let us take from that Frenchman the eagle he carries so proudly, it is continually vexing my eyes, come;' and without recommending ourselves to God, we threw ourselves upon the bearer, killed him, and took the ugly bird; but as we turned we found ourselves surrounded by Frenchmen, friends of the eagle. 'Comrades,' said we, 'it's of no use; as for the bird, he is caged and shall not go out even if Pepe Botellas [Footnote 169] or Napoleon himself, the big thief, should come for him.'

"We set it up against a wild olive, and placed ourselves before it, and now, we said, Come and get him--and they came, for those demons, the worse the cause the more impetuous they are. They killed my poor friend, and had nearly killed me, for they were many. What I felt at the thought of losing the bird! but it was the will of heaven that it should never sing the mambrui [Footnote 170] in French, for our men came and drove them back. They conducted me with my trophy before the colonel, who said that I had behaved well, and should receive the cross of San Fernando, for having captured the eagle. 'I did not capture it, my colonel,' I answered, 'it was my friend, the young noble, who is killed. And I fainted. When came to, I found myself in the hospital and without the cross."

"That was your own fault," said Rita. "Why did you tell the colonel it was not you?"

Ventura looked at her as if he could not comprehend what she was saying.

"You did your duty," said Pedro.

A tear ran down Elvira's cheek.

"I was hardly convalescent when we embarked for Huelra, and I found myself in the battle of Albuera against the division of Marshal Soult. I was soon after taken prisoner; made my escape, and joined the army of Granada, commanded by the Duke del Paryne, in which I remained, pursuing the enemy beyond the Pyrenees. Then I returned to Madrid, where I have been waiting until now for my dismissal."

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"Goodness! Ventura," said Maria, in astonishment, "you have been further than the storks fly!"

"I--no," answered Ventura, "but I know one, and he indeed, he had been with General La Romana, far in the north, where the ground is covered with snow so deep that people are sometimes buried under it."

"Maria Santissima! said Maria, shuddering.

"But they are good people, they do not carry knives."

"God bless them!" exclaimed Maria.

"In that land there is no oil, and they eat black bread."

"A poor country for me," observed Anna, "for I must always eat the best bread, if I eat nothing else."

"What kind of gazpachos [Footnote 171] can they make with black bread, and without oil?" asked Maria, quite horrified.

"They do not eat gazpacho," replied Ventura.

"Then what do they eat?"

"They eat potatoes and milk,", he answered.

"Much good may it do them, and benefit their stomachs."

"The worst is, Aunt Maria, that in all that land there are neither monks nor nuns."

"What are you telling me, my son?"

"What you hear. There are very few churches, and those look like hospitals that have been plundered, for they are without chapels, without altars, without images, and without the blessed sacrament."

"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed all, except Maria, who remained as if turned to stone with surprise. But presently crossing her hands, she exclaimed, with satisfied fervor.

"Ah my sunshine! Ah my white bread! My church! My blessed Mother! My country, my faith, and my God in his sacrament! Happy a thousand times, I, who have been born, and through divine mercy, shall die here! Thank God, my son, that yon did not go to that country, a land of heretics! How dreadful!"

"And is heresy catching, mother, like the itch?" asked Rita ironically.

"I do not say that, God forbid," answered the good Maria; "but--"

"Everything is catching, except beauty," said Pedro, "and one is better off in his own country. I will bet my hands that those who have been there, will bring us nothing good."

"What do not the poor soldiers have to pass through!" sighed Elvira.

"That must be the reason why I have always been so fond of them," added Maria. "That, and because they defend the faith of Christ. And therefore, I am also very devoted to San Fernando, that pious and valiant leader. I have him framed in my parlor, and around him on the wall, I have stuck little paper soldiers, thinking it would be pleasing to the saint, who all his life saw himself surrounded by soldiers. When Rita was about twelve years old, I went to Sevilla, and she gave me a shilling to buy her a little comb. I passed by the shop of an old man who had a lot of little paper soldiers exposed for sale. What a guard for my saint, I thought; but my quarters were all spent. I had nothing left but Rita's shilling. The price of the set was a shilling. Go along, said I to myself, it is better that Rita should do without the bauble than my saint without his guard; and I bought them. I told Rita, and it was the truth, that my money did not hold out. The next day when I was taking them out to stick them up around the picture of the king, Rita came into the room. 'So then,' she said, 'you had money enough to buy these dirty soldiers, and not enough for my little comb,' and she snatched them from my hands to throw them out of the window. 'Child,' I screamed, 'you are throwing my heart into the street with the soldiers!' And seeing that she paid me no attention, I caught up the broom and beat her. The only time I ever beat her in my life."

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"It would have been better for you," said Pedro, "if you had left the marks of your fingers upon her sometimes."

"Who can please you, Uncle Pedro?" said Rita. "My mother erred in not chastising her child, and I err in not spoiling mine."

"Daughter!" replied Pedro, "neither Hei! till they run away, nor Whoa! till they stop short."

"But since you like soldiers so much, mother," proceeded Rita, "why did you take such trouble to prevent my cousin Miguel from becoming one?"

"I love soldiers because they suffer and pass through so much, and for the same reason, I wished to save my nephew."

"How I laughed then!" continued Rita, directing her conversation to Ventura. "Her grace burned lights to all the saints while the lots were being drawn. As she had not candlesticks, she stuck empty shells to the walls with cement; put wicks in them; filled them with oil, and began to pray. While she was praying, in came Miguel's mother, and told her that he had been drafted. My mother, on hearing that, put out the lights, as if to say to the saints, 'Stay in the dark now, I need you no longer!'"

"How you talk, Rita," answered the good Maria. "I trust that God does not so judge our hearts. I resigned myself, my daughter. I resigned myself, because he had made known his pleasure, and when God will not, the saints cannot."

CHAPTER X.

The joy of Elvira was as brief as it had been keen. What can escape the eyes of one who loves? Is it not known that there are things, which, like the wind of Guadarrama, though scarce a breath, yet kill. Before either Rita or Ventura had acknowledged even to their own consciousness, the mutual attraction which they exercised upon each other, Elvira was offering to God, for the second time, the pangs of her lost love. This time, however, without a remote hope. The prudent and patient girl looked upon a rupture as the sure forerunner of some catastrophe, and, like a martyr, endured without daring to repulse them, the evidences of an affection as pale and feeble as she was herself; an affection that was vanishing before the vivid flame of a new love, which already sparkled, active, brilliant, and beautiful like the object that inspired it. While the visits at the grating became every night colder and less' prolonged, there was no occasion that did not, by gesture, look, or word, bring into contact those two beings, who, like moths, took pleasure in approaching the flame, drawn by an instinctive impulse, which they obeyed, but did not pause to define; of which no one warned them, because among the people, a married woman unfaithful to her duties, or a lover neglectful of his, is an anomaly; and one which, in the family whose history we are relating, would have been looked upon as incredible to the point of impossibility. But Rita acknowledged no rein, and the life of a soldier had been a school of evil habits to Ventura. One day Perico, on setting out for the field, found Elvira in the yard, and said to her:

"Here is money, sister, to buy yourself colored dresses. You have fulfilled your promise to wear the habit of our Lady of Sorrows till Ventura came back, and now I wish to see your face, your dress--everything about you gay."

Elvira answered, with difficulty repressing her tears:

"Keep your money, brother, every day I feel myself worse. It is better for me to think of making my peace with God, than of buying wedding clothes, or of changing the colors which are to wrap me in the coffin."

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"Do not say that, sister!" exclaimed Perico. "You break my heart! It has become a habit with you to be melancholy. When you and Ventura are as happy as Rita and I, when you have two little ones like these of ours, to occupy you, your apprehensions will fly away. Come," he added, catching the children, "come and play with your aunt."

Elvira's eyes followed her brother. Her heart was torn with grief; grief all the more agonized and profound for being repressed. She considered that a complaint from her would be like an indiscreet cry of alarm at an inevitable misfortune.

"Aunt," said Angel, "nothing can keep Melampo when father goes."

"He does what he ought, like the good dog he is," answered Elvira.

"And why is he called Melampo?" the child continued, with that zeal for asking questions which older people ridicule, instead of respecting and encouraging.

"He is called so," answered Elvira, "because Melampo is the name of one of the dogs that went to Bethlehem with the shepherds to see the child Jesus. There were three of them, Melampo, Cubilon, and Tobina, and the dogs that bear these names never go mad."

"Aunt," said Angela, running after a little bird, "I can't catch this swallow."

"That is not a swallow. Swallows do not come till spring, and these you must never catch nor molest."

"Why not, aunt?"

"Because they are friends to man, they confide in him and make their nests under his eaves. They are the birds that pulled the thorns out of the Saviour's crown when he hung upon the cross."

At this moment Angel fell and began to cry. Rita rushed impetuously out of her room and snatched him up, exclaiming:

"What has he done to himself? what is the matter with mother's glory?" Wiping his face, which was dirty, with her apron, she continued:

"What is the matter? Sweet little face, covered with mud. Bless his pretty eyes and his mouth, and his poor little hands!"

And covering him with kisses, passionate caresses, she took him and his sister into her mother's house. Returning presently she went into the back-yard to wash.

It has already been said that this yard was next to that of uncle Pedro, separated from it by a low wall.

Rita according to the popular custom began to sing.

Among the people of Andalucia, one can hardly be found whose memory is not a treasury of couplets; and these are so varied that it would be difficult to suggest an idea, for the expression of which a suitable verse would not immediately be found.

A fine voice, well modulated and dear, answered Rita from the adjoining yard; in this manner a musical colloquy was carried on, concluded by the male voice in this couplet, which indicated the wings that the preceding one had given to his desires:

In the mean time Elvira sat sewing beside her mother. Her sweet and placid countenance betrayed none of the pain and anguish of her heart. Nevertheless, Anna looked at her with the penetrating eyes of a mother, and thought, "Will the hopes fail which I placed in Ventura's return? Does our Lord want her for himself?"

At this moment the children rushed in, wild with delight.

"Mamma Anna! Aunt Elvira!" they shouted. "Uncle Pedro says the ass had a little colt last night. She is in the stable with it, and we did not know it here. Come and see it! come and see it!"

And one pulling at the grandmother and the other at the aunt, they went, to the yard and threw the door wide open.

{670}

What a two-edged dagger for the heart of Anna, the honorable woman, the loving mother! Ventura was there with Rita!

Quick as lightning Ventura stepped upon the wheel of a cart which stood close to the wall, and with one spring disappeared.

Rita, enraged, continued her washing, and with unparalleled effrontery began to sing:

The children had run on to the stable without stopping. Anna led her daughter, almost fainting, into the house, and there upon the bosom of her mother, from whom the cause of her grief was no longer a secret, Elvira burst into sobs.

"And you knew it," said her mother; "silent martyr to prudence. Weep, yes, weep, for tears are like the blood which flows from wounds, and renders them less mortal. I knew what she was and warned him. I knew that reprobation must follow the union of kindred blood, and I told him so. He would not listen. It would have been better to let him go to the war. But the heart errs as well as the understanding."

In the mean time the impudent woman went on singing:

CHAPTER XI.

After a night of sleepless anguish, Anna rose, apparently more tranquil; drawing some slight hope from the determination she had taken to speak with Rita; show her the precipice toward which she was running blindly, and persuade her to recede.

Anna had a dignity that would have impressed any one in whom the noble quality of respect had not been suffocated by pride--the worst enemy of man because the most daring; no other like it elevates itself in the presence of virtue; no other is so obstinate and so lordly; no other so hides perversity under forms of goodness; no other so falsifies ideas and qualifies and condemns as servile that sentiment of respect which entered into the world with the first benediction of God. Pride sometimes wishes to elevate itself into dignity, but without success, for dignity never seeks to set itself up at the cost of another, but leaves and maintains everything in its own place; its attitude being even more noble when it honors than when it is honored. Dignity owes its place neither to riches nor knowledge, and least of all is it indebted to pride. It is the simple reflection of an elevated soul which feels its strength. It is natural, like the flush of health; not put on like the color of those who paint. But there are beings who place themselves above everything else, and rest with portentous composure upon a fake and insecure base, parading an intrepidity and an arrogance which they do not assume who rest on the firm rock of infallible justice and eternal truth. Rita, treading a crooked path with fearless step and serene countenance, was one of these beings.

The good sense of the villager, who felt profoundly what we have expressed, and understood perfectly the character of both women, defined it better in their concise laconism when, in speaking of Anna, they said, "Aunt Anna teaches without talking;" and of Rita, "She fears neither God nor the devil."

Rita was sewing when Anna entered. The latter deliberately drew the bolt of the door and sat down facing her daughter-in-law.

"You already know, Rita," she said calmly, "That I was never pleased with your marriage."

"And have you come to receive my thanks?"

Without noticing the question Anna continued:

"I had penetrated your character."

"It was not necessary to be a seer to do that," replied Rita, "I am perfectly open and frank. I say what I think."

{671}

"The evil is not in saying what you think, but in thinking what you say."

"It is plain that it would be better for me to play the dead fox, or still water, like some who appear flakes of snow, but are in reality grains of salt."

This was a fling at Elvira which Anna fully understood, but of which she took no notice, and proceeded.

"Notwithstanding, I was deceived. I had not entirely fathomed you."

"Go on," said Rita, "there is a squall to-day."

"I never thought that what has come to pass would happen."

"Now it escapes and rains pitchforks," said Rita.

"Since," proceeded Anna, "you do not fear to deceive my son--"

"Ho, is that the matter?" said Rita coolly.

"And kill my poor daughter--"

"That will do," interrupted Rita, "there is where the shoe pinches; because Ventura does not want to marry a spectre, that to go out has to ask permission of the gravedigger, I must answer for it. And for no other reason than because he is gay and likes better to jest with one who is cheerful like me than to drink herb-tea with her, can I help it?"

Anna allowed Rita to conclude, her countenance showing no alteration except a mortal paleness.

"Rita," she said, when the latter had finished, "a woman cannot be false to her marriage vows with impunity."

"What are you saying!" exclaimed Rita, springing to her feet and throwing away her work, her cheeks and eyes on fire. "What have you said, madam? I fake to my marriage vows? To that which your eyes did not see you have brought in your hand! I false! I! You have always borne me ill-will, like a mother-in-law in fact, and a bad mother-in-law, but I never knew before that the saint-eaters bore such testimony."

"I do not say that you are so," replied Anna, in the same grave and moderate tone which she had observed from the beginning, "but that you are in the way, that you are going to be false if God does not prevent it by opening your eyes."

"Now, as formerly, and always a prophetess, Jonah in person, and" (she added between her teeth) "may the whale swallow you also."

"Yes, Rita, yes," said Anna, "and I have come--"

"To threaten me?" asked Rita, with an air of bold defiance.

"No, Rita, no, my daughter; I have come to beg of you in the name of God, for the love of my son, for the sake of your children, and for your own sake, to consider what you are doing, to examine your heart while there is yet time."

"Did Perico send you?"

"No, my dear son suspects nothing, God forbid that we should awaken a sleeping lion."

"Well, then, why do you put yourself into so wide a garment? Go along! The one who is being hanged does not feel it but the witness feels it! Perico, madam, is not and never has been jealous; neither does he suspect the fingers of his guests, or go in quest of trouble. He is no dirty hypocrite, crying to heaven because people joke, and he does not bully because somebody draws a few buckets of water for his wife when she is washing. Do you think that I shall lose my soul for that?"

"Rita, Rita, do not trifle with men."

"Nor you with women. Good heavens! it would seem that I am scandalizing the town."

"Consider, Rita," continued Anna with increased severity, "that with men an affront is often the cause of bloodshed."

"You would bathe in rose-water," responded Rita "if matters seemed to be running a little toward the fulfilment of those predictions of yours about kindred blood not harmonizing, and others of the same kind, by which you wished to prevent your son from marrying; and you were disappointed; {672} and you will be now if you attempt, as I see you are attempting, to make trouble between us. I know what I am doing; Perico is a lover of quiet, and knows the wife he has. Leave us in peace, and we will live so, if you do not heat your son's skull by your meddling; you take care of the wedding finery of your daughter, the flower of the family."

At this string of taunts and insults, the prudent long-suffering of that respectable matron, wavered for an instant; but the angel of patience that God sends to women from the moment they become mothers, to help them bear their crosses, vanquished, and Anna went out, looking at Rita with a sad smile, in which there was as much or more compassion than contempt.

The worthy woman remained in a state of depression and anguish, on account of the failure of the step she had taken, and determined to open her heart to Pedro, in order to have him send his son away. Finally there was a guard wanting at the estate on which Ventura had served, and he was called to fill the place. This absence, though interrupted by frequent visits to the village, gave some respite to the afflicted Anna, who said to herself, "a day of life is life."

CHAPTER XII.

In the mean time the happy Christmas holidays arrived. They had arranged for the children a beautiful birth-place, which occupied the whole front of the parlor, covering it with aromatic pistachio, rosemary, lavender, and other odorous plants and leaves. Perico brought these things from the field with all the pleasure of a lover bringing flowers to his bride.

On Christmas day, Perico heard mass early, and went to take a walk to his wheat-field, having been told that there were goats in the neighborhood.

He returned home about ten o'clock, and found the children alone.

"How glad we are, father, that you have come," they shouted, running joyfully toward him. "They have all gone and left us."

"Where then are Mamma Anna, and Aunt Elvira?"

"They went to high mass."

"Who staid with you?"

"Mother."

"And where is she?"

"How do we know? We were in the parlor with her grace, dancing before the birth-place. Ventura came in, and mother told us to go somewhere else with the music, for it made her head ache, and when we were going out Ventura told her, I heard it, father, that she did right to put the door between, for the little angels of God were the devil's little witnesses. Is it true, father, are we the devil's little witnesses?"

To whom has it not happened, at some time in his life, in great or in less important circumstances, that a single word has been the key to open and explain; the torch to illuminate the present and the past; to bring out of oblivion and light up a train of circumstances and incidents which had transpired unperceived, but which now unite, to form an opinion, to fix a conviction or to root a belief? Such was the effect upon Perico of the words, which the decree of expiation seemed to have put into the mouth of innocence.

Late, but terrible, the truth presented itself to the eyes which good faith had kept closed, and doubt took possession of the heart so healthy and so shielded by honor that a suspicion had never entered it.

"Father, father!" cried the children, seeing him tremble and turn pale. Perico did not hear them.

"Mamma Anna," they exclaimed, as the latter entered, "hurry, father is sick!"

{673}

As he heard his mother enter, Perico turned his perplexed eyes toward her, and seemed to read again in her severe countenance the terrible sentence she had once pronounced upon a future from which her loving foresight would have preserved him: "A bad daughter will be a bad wife." Overwhelmed, he rushed out of the house, muttering a pretext for his flight which no one understood.

Anna put her head out of the window, and felt relieved as she saw that he went toward the fields.

"Could any one have told him that goats have broken into the wheat?"

"It is very likely, mother; he suspected it yesterday," answered Elvira. But dinner-time came, and Perico did not appear.

It was strange, on Christmas day; but to country people, who have no fixed hours, it was not alarming.

In the evening Maria arrived at the usual time.

"Did Ventura not come to the village to-day?" asked Anna.

"Yes," answered Pedro, "but there is an entertainment, and his friends carried him off. He has always been so fond of dancing that he would at any time leave his dinner, for a fandango."

"And Rita," said Elvira, "was she not at your house. Aunt Maria?"

"She came there, my daughter, but wanted to go with a neighbor to the entertainment. I told her she had better stay at home, but as she never minds me--"

"And you told her right, Maria," added Pedro, "an honest woman's place is in the house."

They were oppressed and silent when Perico abruptly entered.

The light was so deadened by the lamp-shade that they did not perceive the complete transformation of his face. Dark lines, which appeared the effect of long days of sickness, encircled his burning eyes, and his lips were red and parched like those of a person in a fever. He threw a rapid glance around, and abruptly asked, "Where is Rita?"

All remained silent; at length Maria said timidly,

"My son, she went for a little while to the feast with a neighbor--she must be here soon--she took it into her head--and as it was Christmas day--"

Without answering a word, Perico turned suddenly, and left the room. His mother rose quickly and followed, but did not overtake him.

"I tell you, Maria," said Pedro, "that Perico ought to beat her well. I would not say a word to stop him."

"Don't talk so, Pedro," answered Maria, "Perico is not the one to strike a woman. My poor little girl! we shall see. What harm is there in giving two or three hops? Old folks, Pedro, should not forget that they have been young."

At this moment Anna entered, trembling.

"Pedro," she said, "go to the feast!"

"I?" answered Pedro; "you are cool! I am out of all patience with that same feast. If Perico warms his wife's ribs, he will be well employed; she shall not dry her tears upon my pocket-handkerchief."

"Pedro, go to the feast!" said Anna again, but this time with such an accent of distress, that Pedro turned his head and sat staring at her.

Anna caught him by the arm, obliged him to rise, drew him aside, and spoke a few rapid words to him in a low voice.

The old man as he listened gave a half-suppressed cry, clasped his hands across his forehead, caught up his hat and hastily left the house.

CHAPTER XIII.

Ventura and Rita were dancing at the feast, animated by that which mounts to heads wanting in age or wanting in sense; by that which blinds the eyes of reason, silences prudence, and puts respect to flight; that is to say, wine; a love entirely material, a voluptuous dance, executed without restraint, amid foolish drunken applauses.

{674}

In truth they were a comely pair. Rita moved her charming head, adorned with flowers, and tossed her person to and fro with that inimitable grace of her province, which is at will modest or free. Her black eyes shone like polished jet, and her fingers agitated the castanets in defiant provocation. She had in Ventura a partner well suited to her. Never was the fandango danced with more grace and sprightliness.

The excited singers improvised (according to custom) couplets in praise of the brilliant pair:

During the last changes when the clappings and cheers were redoubled, Perico arrived and stopped upon the threshold.

Occupied as all were with the dance, no one noticed his arrival, and Ventura conducting Rita to a room where there were refreshments passed close beside him as he stood in shadow, without being aware of his presence. As they passed he heard words between them which confirmed the whole extent of his misfortune; all the infamy of the wife he loved so fondly, of the mother of his children; all the treachery of a friend and brother.

The blow was so terrible that the unhappy man remained for a moment stunned; but recovering himself, he followed them.

Rita stood before a small mirror arranging the flowers that adorned her head.

"Withered," said Ventura, "why do you put on roses? Is it not known that they always die of envy on the head of a handsome woman?"

"Look here, Ventura," said one of his friends, "you appear to like the forbidden fruit better than any other."

"I," responded Ventura, "like good fruit though it be forbidden."

"That is an indignity," said a friend of Perico's.

One of those present took the speaker by the arm, and said to him, as he drew him aside.

"Hush, man! don't you see that he is drunk? Who gave you a candle for this funeral? What is it to you if Perico, who is the one interested, consents?"

"Who dares to say that Perico Alvareda consents to an indignity?" said the latter presenting himself in the middle of the room, as pale as if risen from a bier.

At the sound of her husband's voice, Rita slid like a serpent among the bystanders and disappeared.

"He comes in good time to look after his wife," said some hair-brained youths, who formed a sort of retinue to the brilliant dancer and valiant young soldier, bursting into a laugh.

"Sirs," said Perico, crossing his arms upon his breast with a look of suppressed rage, "have I a monkey show in my face?"

"That or something else which provokes laughter," answered Ventura, at which all laughed.

"It is lucky for you," retorted Perico, in a choked voice, "that I am not armed."

"Shut your mouth!" exclaimed Ventura, with a rude laugh. "How bold the pet lamb is getting! Leave off bravado, pious youth; don't be picking quarrels, but go home and wipe your children's noses."

At these words Perico precipitated himself upon Ventura. The latter recoiled before the sudden shock, but immediately recovered himself, and with the strength and agility which were natural to him, seized Perico by the middle, threw him to the ground, and put his knee upon his breast.

Fortunately Perico did not carry a knife, and Ventura did not draw his; but instead the latter clenched both hands upon Perico's throat, repeating furiously:

{675}

"You! You! that I can tear to pieces with three fingers; do you lay your hands upon me? You! a killer of locusts, a coward, a chicken, brought up under your mother's wing. You to me! to me!"

At this instant Pedro entered.

"Ventura!" he shouted, "Ventura! What are you doing? what are you doing, madman?"

At the sight of his father, Ventura loosed his grasp upon Perico and stood up.

"You are drunk," continued Pedro, beside himself with indignation and grief. "You are drunk, and with evil wine. [Footnote 172] Go home," he added pushing Ventura by the shoulder, "go home, and go on before me."

Ventura obeyed without answering, for with Pedro's words, it was not alone the voice of his father that reached his ears, it was the voice of reason, of conscience, of his own heart. His noble instincts were awakened, and he blushed for the affair which had just taken place, and for the cause which had occasioned it. Therefore he lowered his head as in the presence of all he respected, and went out, followed by his father.

In the mean while they had raised Perico, who was gradually recovering from the vertigo caused by the pressure of Ventura's fingers.

He passed his hand across his forehead, cast upon those who surrounded him the glance of a wounded and manacled lion, and left the room, saying in a hollow voice,

"He has destroyed us both."

As Ventura had gone, accompanied by his father, those present allowed Perico to leave without opposition.

"This is not the end," said one, shaking his head.

"That is clear," said another. "First deceived, and afterward beaten; who is the saint that could bear it?"

Perico went home muttering in disjointed and broken sentences--"Chicken!" "Coward!" "Something in my face which provokes laughter!" "And he tells me so, he!" "Pet lamb!" "No one cast a doubt upon my honor until you spat upon it and trampled it under your feet! Oh! we shall see!" He entered his room and seized his gun.

"Father!" called the little voice of Angela from the next apartment, "father, we are alone."

"You will be yet more alone," murmured Perico, without answering her.

The children's voices kept on calling "Father, father!"

"You have no father!" shouted Perico, and went out into the court. He placed his gun against the trunk of the orange-tree, in order to take out ammunition to load it, but, as if the ancient protector of the family repulsed the weapon, it slid and fell to the ground. The leaves of the tree murmured mournfully. Were they moved by some dismal presentiment?

Perico was leaving the court when he found himself face to face with his mother, who, made watchful by her inquietude, had heard her son enter.

"Where are you going, Perico?" she asked.

"To the field. I have told you already that there were goats around."

"Did you go to the feast?"

"Yes."

"And Rita?"

"Was not there. Mamma Maria dotes."

Anna breathed more freely; still, the unusual roughness of her son's tone and the asperity of his replies surprised the already alarmed mother.

"Don't go now to the field, my child," she said in a supplicating voice.

"Not go to the field, and why?"

"Because I feel in my heart that you ought not, and you know that my heart is true."

"Yes, I know it!" he answered, with such acerbity and bitterness that Anna began to fear that although he might not have found Rita at the feast, he had, nevertheless, his suspicions.

"Well, then, since you know it, do not go," she said.

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"Madam," answered Perico, "women sometimes exasperate men by trying to govern them. They say that I have been brought up under your wing. I intend now to fly alone," and he went toward the gate.

"Is this my son?" cried the poor mother. "Something is the matter with him! Something is wrong!"

As Perico opened the gate, his faithful companion, the good Melampo, came to his side.

"Go back!" said Perico, giving him a kick.

The poor animal, little used to ill treatment, fell back astonished, but immediately, and with that absence of resentment which makes the dog a model of abnegation in his affection, as well as of fidelity, darted to the gate in order to follow his master. It was already shut. Then he began to howl mournfully, as if to prove the truth of the instinct of these animals when they announce a catastrophe by their lamentations.

CHAPTER XIV.

On the following day, when sleep had dispelled from Ventura's brain the remaining fumes that confused his reason, he rose as deeply ashamed as he was sincerely penitent. He, therefore, listened to the just and sensible charges which his father made against his proceedings, past and present, without contradicting them.

"All you say is true, father," he answered, "and I can only tell you that I did not know what I was doing, but I feel it enough now! The wine, the cursed wine! I will ask Perico's pardon before all the village. I owe it more to myself than even to him I have offended."

"You promise, then, to ask his pardon?"

"A hundred times, father."

"You will marry Elvira?"

"With all my heart."

"And treat her well?"

"By this cross," said Ventura making the sign with his fingers.

"You and she will go to Alcalá?"

"Yes, sir, if it were to Peñon." [Footnote 173]

Pedro looked at him a moment with deep emotion, and said:

"Well, then, God bless you, my son."

Both went to Anna's in search of Perico, but he had gone out, Anna told them. At sight of them, but still more on noticing the joy and satisfaction which shone in Pedro's face, Anna's vague but distressing fears were tranquillized, and, more than all, Ventura's manner filled her with hope, for she saw that he approached Elvira and talked to her with interest and tenderness, while Pedro said, with a mysterious air and winking toward Ventura, "That young fellow is in a hurry to be married. You mustn't take so long to prepare the wedding things, neighbor; young people are not so sluggish as we old ones."

They soon left, Ventura for the hacienda at which he was employed; Pedro, who was going to his wheat-field, accompanied him, their road being the same. The wheat was very fine, not full of weeds.

"The weeds are awake," said Ventura.

"Give them time," replied Pedro, "and they will vanquish the wheat, because they are the legitimate offspring of the soil. The wheat is its foster child. But, with the favor of God, wheat will not be lacking in the house for us and for more that may come."

They separated and Ventura disappeared in the olive-grove. Pedro remained looking after him.

"Not even a king," he said to himself, "has a son like mine. Nor is there his equal in all Spain. If he is noble in person, he is more noble in soul."

Ventura had advanced but few steps into the grove when he saw Perico at a little distance, coming from behind a tree with his gun.

{677}

"I have something in my face, thanks to you," he shouted, "that provokes laughter. I have also something in my hand that stops laughter. I am a coward and a killer of locusts, but I know how to rid myself of the reproach you have put upon me."

"Perico, what are you doing?" cried Ventura, running toward him to arrest the action. But the shot had been sent on its dreadful errand, and Ventura fell mortally wounded. Pedro heard the report and started.

"What is that?" he exclaimed, "but what would it be?" he added upon reflection. "Ventura has perhaps shot a partridge. It sounded near. I will go and see."

He hurriedly follows the path his son has taken, sees a form lying upon the ground; approaches it--God of earth and heaven! It is a wounded man! and that man is his son! The poor old man falls down beside him.

"Father," Ventura says, "I have some strength left; calm yourself and help me get to the hacienda; it is not far and let them send for a confessor, for I wish to die like a Christian."

The God of pity gives strength to the poor old man. He raises his son, who, leaning upon his shoulder walks a few steps, repressing the groans which anguish wrings from his breast.

At the hacienda, they hear a pitiful voice calling for succor; all run out and see, coming along the path, the unfortunate father supporting upon his shoulder his dying son. They meet and surround them.

"A priest! a priest!" moans the exhausted voice of Ventura.

A suitable person, mounted on the fleetest horse, leaves for the village.

"The surgeon, bring the surgeon!" calls the father.

"And the magistrate!" adds the superintendent.

In this manner passes an hour of agony and dread.

But now they hear the swift approach of horses' feet, and the messenger comes accompanied by the priest. The aid which arrives first is that of religion.

The priest enters, carrying in his bosom the sacred host. All prostrate themselves. The wretched father finds relief in tears.

They leave the priest with the dying man, and through the house, broken only by the sobs of Pedro, reigns a solemn silence.

The minister of God comes out of the room. A sweet calm has spread itself over the face of the reconciled. The surgeon enters, probes the wound, and turns silently with a sad movement of his head toward those who are standing by. Pedro awaiting, with hands convulsively clasped, the sentence of the man of science, falls to the floor, and they carry him away.

"Sir magistrate," the surgeon says, "he is not capable of making a declaration, he is dying."

These words rouse Ventura. With that energy which is natural to him, he opens his eyes and says distinctly: "Ask, for I can still answer."

The scribe prepares his materials and the magistrate asks:

"What has been the cause of your death?"

"I myself," distinctly replied Ventura.

"Who shot you?"

"One whom I have forgiven."

"You then forgive your murderer?"

"Before God and man."

These were his last words.

The priest presses his hand and says, "Let us recite the creed." All kneel, and the guardian angel embraces as a sister, even before hearing the divine sentence, the parting soul of him who died forgiving his murderer.

{678}

CHAPTER XV.

The women were together in Anna's parlor, and although not one of them, except Rita, knew of the events of the night before, they sat in oppressive silence, for even Maria was wanting in her accustomed loquacity.

"I don't know why," she said at last, "nor what is the matter with me, but my heart to-day feels as though it could not stay in its place."

"It is the same with me," said Elvira, "I cannot breathe freely. I feel as if a stone lay on my heart. Perhaps it is the air. Is it going to rain, Aunt Maria?"

"My poor child," thought Anna, "the remedy comes too late. Earth is calling her body and heaven her soul."

"Well, I feel just as usual," said Rita, who was in reality the one that could hardly sit still for uneasiness.

Angela had made her a rag baby, which she was rocking in a hollow tile by way of cradle, and the painful silence which followed these few words was only broken by the gentle voice of the little girl as she sung, in the sweet and monotonous nursery melody to which some mothers lend such simple enchantment, and such infinite tenderness, these words:

The childish song was interrupted by a heavy solemn stroke of the church bell. Its vibration died away in the air slowly and gradually, as if mounting to other regions.

"His Majesty!" said all, rising to their feet.

Anna prayed aloud for the one who was about to receive the last sacraments.

"For whom can it be?" said Maria. "I do not know of any one that is dangerously sick in the place."

Rita looked out of the window and asked of a woman that was passing, who was the sick person?

"I do not know," she answered, "but it is some one out of the village."

Another woman cried as she approached, "Mercy! it is a murder, for the magistrate and the surgeon have followed the priest as fast as they could!"

"God help him!" they all exclaimed, with that profound and terrible emotion which is excited by those awful words, a murder!

"And who can it be?" asked Rita.

"No one knows," answered the woman.

Then the bell tolled for the passing soul; solemn stroke; stroke of awe; voice of the church, which announces to men that a brother is striving in weariness, anguish, and dismay, and is going to appear before the dread tribunal--momentous voice, by which the church says to the restless multitude, deep in frivolous interests which it deems important, and in fleeting passions which it dreams will be eternal: Stand still a moment in respect for death, in consideration of your fellow-being who is about to disappear from the earth, as you will disappear tomorrow.

They remained plunged in silence, but nevertheless deeply moved, as happens sometimes with the sea, when its surface is calm, but its bosom heaves with those deep interior waves which sailors call a ground-swell.

And not they alone. The whole village was in consternation, for death by the hand of violence always appalls, since the curse which God pronounced upon Cain continues, and will continue, in undiminished solemnity throughout all generations.

"How long the time is!" said Maria, at length. "It seems as if the day stood still."

"And as if the sun were nailed in the sky," added Elvira. "Suspense is so painful. Perhaps robbers have done it."

"It may have been unintentional," answered Maria.

"Mamma Anna, who has killed a man, and what made him do it?" asked the little Angela.

"Who can tell," replied Anna, "what is the cause, or whose the daring hand that has anticipated that of God in extinguishing a torch which he lighted."

{679}

At that instant they heard a distant rumor. People moved by curiosity are running through the street, and confused exclamations of astonishment and pity reach their ears.

"What is it?" asked Rita, approaching the window.

"They are bringing the dead man this way," was the answer.

Elvira felt herself irresistibly impelled to look out.

"Come away, Elvira," said her mother, "you know that you cannot bear the sight of a corpse."

Elvira did not hear her, for the crowd, that drawn by curiosity, sympathy, or friendship, had surrounded the body and its attendants, was coming near. Anna and Maria, also placed themselves at the grating. The corpse approached, lying across a horse and covered with a sheet. An old man follows it, supported by two persons. His head is bowed upon his breast. They look at him--merciful God! it is Pedro! and they utter a simultaneous cry.

Pedro hears it, lifts his head and sees Rita. Despair and indignation give him strength. He frees himself violently from the arms that sustain him, and precipitates himself toward the horse, exclaiming: "Look at your work, heartless woman! Perico killed him." Saying this, he lifts the sheet and exposes the body of Ventura, pale, bloody, and with a deep wound in the breast.