ONE morning in October, in the year 1838, a man on foot descended a little hill in the county of Niebla, and advanced towards the coast. His impatience to arrive at a little port which had been indicated to him was such that, thinking to shorten his route, he found himself in one of those vast solitudes so common in the south of Spain, real deserts, reserved to raise cattle, and in which the flocks never go beyond the limits. This man, although not more than twenty-six years of age, appeared already old. He wore a military tunic, buttoned up to the chin. On his head he wore a common cloth cap. He carried on his shoulder a large stick, at the end of which was suspended a little casket of mahogany, covered with green flannel, a package of books, fastened together with pack-thread, a handkerchief covering a little white linen, and a great cloak rolled up. This light baggage appeared to be beyond the strength of the traveller, who, from time to time, paused, supporting one hand on his oppressed chest, or passing it over his burning forehead. At times he fixed his looks on a poor dog which followed him, and which, whenever he halted, stretched himself at full length at his feet. “Poor Fidele!” said the master; “the only being who makes me believe there is yet in the world a little of affection and of gratitude. No! I will never forget the day when I saw you for the first time. Thou wast, with a poor herdsman, condemned to be shot, because he would not be a traitor. He was on his knees, he awaited his death, and it was in vain he supplicated a respite. He asked that thou shouldst be spared, and no one listened to him. The shots were fired, and thou, faithful friend of the unfortunate, thou didst fall cruelly wounded beside the inanimate corpse of thy master. I rescued thee, I cured thy wounds, and since then thou hast not abandoned me. When the wits of the regiment called me a dog-curer, you came and licked the hand that had saved you, as if you would say to me, ‘Dogs have gratitude.’ Oh! my God, I have a loving heart! It is two years since, full of life, of hope, and good-will, I arrived in this country, and offered to my brethren my will, my care, my knowledge, and my heart. I have cured many wounds; for my recompense they have made me feel sorrow the most profound, and it is my soul they have lacerated. Great God! great God! discouragement has seized me. I see myself ingloriously driven from the army, after two years of incessant labor—labor without repose. I see myself accused and pursued, for nothing but for having given my care to a man of an opposite party; to an unhappy man, who, driven like a beast, fell dying into my arms. Is it possible that the rules of war convert into a crime what morality recognizes as a virtue, and which religion proclaims to be a duty!

“What can I do at present? Go and repose my head, prematurely bald, and cure my lacerated heart in the shade of the linden-trees which surround my father’s house. There, at least, they will not charge me with crime for having showed pity for a dying man.”

After the pause of a few minutes, the unhappy man made an effort. “Let us go, Fidele,” said he; “move on! move on!” and the traveller and his faithful animal pursued their painful route.

But soon the man lost the right path, which he had until now followed, and which had been beaten by the steps of the shepherds. The ground was covered more and more with briers and with high and thick bushes; it was impossible to follow a straight line; he must turn aside alternately to the right and left.

The sun had finished his course, and no part of the horizon discovered the least appearance of any human habitation. There was nothing to be seen but limitless solitude; nothing but the desert tinged with green, and uniform as the ocean.

Fritz Stein, whom our reader no doubt already recognizes, perceived too late that he had placed too much confidence in his strength. With pain and difficulty his swollen and aching feet could barely sustain him. His arteries throbbed with violence, a sharp pain racked his temples, an ardent thirst devoured him, and to heighten the horror of his situation, the deafening and prolonged bellowings announced the approach of some droves of wild bulls, so dangerous in Spain.

“God has saved me from many perils,” said the poor traveller; “he will yet protect me. If not, his will be done.”

He redoubled his speed; but what was his terror, when, after having passed a little plantation of mastic-trees, he found himself face to face with a bull!

Stein remained immovable, and, to say truly, petrified.

The animal, surprised at this encounter and at so much audacity, remained also without motion; his eyes were inflamed like two burning coals. The man immediately understood that at the least movement he was lost. The bull, who was, by instinct, conscious of his strength and his courage, waited to be provoked to fight; lowering and raising his head three or four times impatiently, he began to paw the earth and to fill the air with dust, in token of his defiance. Stein preserved his immobility. The animal then stepped one pace backward, lowered his head and prepared for the attack—when he felt himself bitten in the ham. At the same time the furious barking of his brave companion informed Stein who was his rescuer. The bull, full of rage, turned to repel this unlooked-for attack; Stein profited by this movement and took to flight. The horrible situation from which he had with so great difficulty escaped, gave him new strength to fly past the green oaks and through the briers, the thickness of which sheltered him from his formidable adversary.

He had already passed a little dale, and climbed a hillock, and then he stopped nearly out of breath. He turned round to observe the place of his perilous adventure. He saw through the clearing his poor companion, which the ferocious animal tossed in the air as if diverting himself.

Stein extended his arms towards his dog, so courageous, so devoted, and, sobbing, he exclaimed:

“Poor Fidele! poor Fidele! my only friend! you well merit your name! You pay dear for the affection you have shown for your masters.”

Then, to distract his thoughts from this frightful spectacle, Stein hurried on, shedding profuse tears. He thus arrived at the summit of another hill, where was spread open to his view a magnificent landscape. The ground sloped almost insensibly to the borders of the sea, which, calmly and tranquilly, reflected the last rays of the sun, and presented the appearance of a vast field spangled with rubies and sapphires.

The white sail of a vessel, which appeared as if held stationary by the waves, seemed detached like a pearl in the midst of these splendid riches.

The line formed by the coast was marvellously uneven; the shore seemed covered with golden sands, where the sea rolled its long silver fringes.

Bordering the coast, rose rocks whose gigantic boulders seemed to pierce the azure sky. In the distance, at the left, Stein discovered the ruins of a fort—human labor which could resist nothing; and whose base was the rock—divine work which resisted every thing: at the right he perceived a cluster of houses, without being able to perceive whether it was a village, a palace, or a convent.

Nearly exhausted by his last hurried walk, and by his saddened emotions, it was towards this point he would direct his steps. He could not reach it until night had set in. What he saw was, in fact, one of those convents constructed in the times of Christian faith and enthusiasm. The monastery had been in the olden time brilliant, sumptuous, and hospitable; now it was abandoned, poor, empty, dismantled, offered for sale—as was indicated by some strips of paper pasted on its ruined walls. Nobody, however, desired to purchase it, however low was the price asked.

The wide folding-doors which formerly offered an easy access to all comers, were now closed as if they would never again be opened.

Stein’s strength abandoned him, and he fell almost without consciousness upon a stone bench: the delirium of fever attacked his brain, and he was only aroused by the crowing of a cock.

Rising suddenly, Stein with pain walked to the door, took up a stone and knocked. A loud barking replied to his summons. He made another effort, knocked again; but his strength was exhausted—he sank on the ground.

The door was opened, and two persons appeared.

One of them was a young woman, holding a light in her hand, which she directed towards the object lying at her feet.

“Jesus!” she cried, “it is not Manuel—a stranger! God aid us!”

“Help him,” replied the other, a good and simple old woman. “Brother Gabriel! brother Gabriel!” she called out in entering the court, “come quickly, there is here an unfortunate man who is dying.”

Hurried steps were heard: they were those of an old man of ordinary height, with a placid and high complexioned face. His dress consisted of pantaloons and a large vest with gray sleeves, and the remnant of an old frock-coat; he had sandals on his feet; a cap of black wool covered his shiny forehead.

“Brother Gabriel,” said the elder female, “we must succor this man.”

“He must be cared for,” replied brother Gabriel.

“For God’s sake,” cried the woman who carried the light, “where can we place here a dying man?”

“We will do the best we can, my daughter, without being uneasy about the rest. Help me.”

“Would to God,” said Dolores, “that we may have no disagreement when Manuel returns.”

“It cannot be otherwise,” replied the good old woman, “than that the son will concur in what his mother has done.”

The three conveyed Stein to the chamber of brother Gabriel. They made up for him a bed with fresh straw, and a good large mattress filled with wool. Grandma Maria took out of a large chest a pair of sheets, if not very fine, at least very white. She then added a warm woollen counterpane.

Brother Gabriel wished to give up his pillow; the Grandma opposed it, saying she had two, and that one would suffice for her. During these preparations some one knocked loud at the door, and continued to knock.

“Here is Manuel,” said the young woman. “Come with me, mother; I do not wish to be alone with him, when he learns that we have admitted a stranger.”

The mother-in-law followed the steps of her daughter.

“God be praised! Good evening, mother; good evening, wife,” said, on entering, a strong and powerfully constructed man. He seemed to be thirty-eight to forty years old, and was followed by a child of about thirteen years.

“Come, Momo![2] unlade the ass and lead him to the stable; the poor beast is tired.”

Momo carried to the kitchen, where the family was accustomed to assemble, a supply of large loaves of white bread, some very plump woodcock, and his father’s cloak.

Dolores went and closed the door and then rejoined her husband and her mother in the kitchen.

“Have you brought my ham and my starch?” she asked.

“Here there are.”

“And my flax?”

“I had almost a desire to forget it,” answered Manuel, smiling, and handing some skeins to his mother.

“Why, my son?”

“Because I recollected that villager who went to the fair, and whom all the neighbors loaded with commissions: Bring me a hat, said one; Bring me a pair of gaiters, said another; a cousin asked for a comb; an aunt wished for some chocolate; and for all these commissions no one gave him a cuarto. He had already bestrode his mule, when a pretty little child came to him and said: ‘Here are two cuartos for a flageolet, will you bring me one?’ The child presented his money, the villager stooped, took it, and replied, ‘You shall be flageoleted.’ And in fact when he returned from the fair, of all the commissions they had given him he brought only the flageolet.”

“Be it so! it is well,” said the mother: “why do I pass every day in sewing? Is it not for thee and thy children? Do you wish that I imitate the tailor who worked for nothing, and furnished the thread below the cost?”

At this moment Momo reappeared on the threshold of the kitchen; he was small and fat, high shouldered; he had, besides, the bad habit to raise them without any cause, with an air of scorn and carelessness, almost to touch his large ears which hung out like fans. His head was enormous, his hair short, lips thick. Again—he squinted horribly.

“Father,” said he, with a malicious air, “there, is a man asleep in the chamber of brother Gabriel.”

“A man in my house!” cried Manuel, throwing away his chair. “Dolores, what does this mean?”

“Manuel, it is a poor invalid. Your mother would that we receive him: it was not my opinion: she insisted, what could I do?”

“It is well; but however she may be my mother, ought she for that to lodge here the first man that comes along?”

“No—he should be left to die at the door like a dog, is it not so?”

“But, my mother,” replied Manuel, “is my house a hospital?”

“No. It is the house of a Christian; and if you had been here you would have done as I did.”

“Oh! certainly not,” continued Manuel; “I would have put him on our ass and conducted him to the village, now there are no more convents.”

“We had not our ass here, and there was no one to take charge of this unfortunate man.”

“And if he is a robber?”

“Dying men do not rob.”

“And if his illness is long, who will take care of him?”

“They have just killed a fowl to make broth,” said Momo, “I saw the feathers in the court.”

“Have you lost your mind, mother!” cried Manuel furiously.

“Enough, enough,” said his mother, in a severe tone. “You ought to blush for shame to dare to quarrel with me because I have obeyed the law of God. If your father were still living, he would not believe that his son could refuse to open his door to the unfortunate, ill, without succor, and dying.”

Manuel bowed his head: there was a moment of silence.

“It is well, my mother,” he said, at last. “Forget that I have said any thing, and act according to your own judgment. We know that women are always right.”

Dolores breathed more freely.

“How good he is!” she said joyously to her mother-in-law.

“Could you doubt it?” she replied, smiling, to her daughter, whom she tenderly loved; and in rising to go and take her place at the couch of the invalid, she added:

“I have never doubted it, I who brought him into the world.”

And in passing near to Momo, she said to him:

“I already knew that you had a bad heart; but you have never proved it as you have to-day. I complain of you: you are wicked, and the wicked carry their own chastisement.”

“Old people are only good for sermonizing,” growled Momo, in casting a side look at his grandmother.

But he had scarcely pronounced this last word, when his mother, who had heard him, approached and applied a smart blow.

“That will teach you,” she said, “to be insolent to the mother of your father; towards a woman who is twice your mother.”

Momo began to cry, and took refuge at the bottom of the court, and vented his anger in bastinadoing the poor dog who had not offended him.