THE end of October had been rainy, and November sheltered herself under her thick green mantle.

Stein took a walk one day in front of the convent. A magnificent panorama presented itself to his sight: at the right, the limitless sea; at the left, solitude without end. Between them, on the horizon, was painted the black profile of the fort San Cristobal. The sea undulated softly, in raising without effort the waves gilded by the sun’s rays, like a queen who spreads out her gorgeous mantle.

Not far from thence was situated the village of Villamar, near a river as impetuous during winter, as calm and muddy during summer. The grounds around, well cultivated, presented the aspect of a chess-board, where each square revealed the thousand shades of green. Here shone the warm tints of the vine, then covered with leaves; there, the ash-colored green of the olive-tree; the emerald green of the fig-trees, which the rains of autumn had imparted growth to; further off still, the bluish-green hedges of aloes. At the mouth of the river were collected several fishermen’s boats.

Near the convent, upon a light hillock, stood a chapel; in front, a cross based on a block of masonry whitened with lime; behind this cross, a retreat of verdure: it was the cemetery. Stein went there to meditate upon the powerful magic of the works of nature, when he saw Momo leaving the farm and going towards the village. In perceiving Stein, Momo proposed to him to accompany him, and they both commenced their route. They arrived soon at the top of the hillock, near the cross and the chapel. This ascension, however short and easy, had taken away Stein’s strength, who was yet scarcely convalescent. He rested an instant; then he entered the chapel, whose walls were covered with “exvotos.” Among these exvotos there was one which singularly attracted by its strangeness. The front of the altar contracted itself towards the base in describing a curved line. Stein perceived there in the obscurity an object supported against the wall, and the form of which he could not distinguish. Fixing his earnest scrutiny on this object, he became assured it was a carbine. The size was such, and the weight must have been so great that it was incomprehensible how one single man could have the strength to place it in that position: it is but the reflection which is always inspired by the sight of the armor of the middle ages. The mouth of the carbine was so large that an orange could easily be introduced. The arm was broken, and the pieces were artistically put together by means of little cords.

“Momo,” said Stein, “what does this signify? Is it really a carbine?”

“In looking at it,” replied Momo, “it seems to me to be one.”

“But why do they place a murderous weapon in this holy and peaceful place? In truth, it is not sense to arm Christ with a pair of pistols.”

“But see, then,” replied Momo, “the carbine is not placed in the hands of our Lord; it is at his feet, as an offering. The day on which this carbine was brought here, they called this Christ, the Christ of Good Help.”

“And from what motive?” demanded Stein.

“For what motive!” said Momo in opening his eyes, “everybody knows that, and you know it not!”

“Have you forgotten that I am a stranger?” replied. Stein.

“That is true; I will tell you then: there was formerly in this country a highway robber who did not content himself with robbing, he murdered the people as if they were insects, whether from hatred, whether from fear of being denounced, or whether from caprice. One day two men of this village, two brothers, would undertake a journey. All their friends assembled to conduct them part of the way. There were abundance of good wishes that they might not encounter the bandit who gave quarter to no one, and who terrified everybody. But they, good children, commended themselves to Christ, and departed full of confidence in his protection. At the entrance of a wood of olives, they found themselves face to face with the robber, who came before them, with carbine in hand, rested his gun and aimed. In this extreme peril the two brothers fell on their knees, addressing themselves to Christ: ‘Help us, Lord!’ The bandit pulled the trigger, but whose soul was launched into another world? It was that of the robber: God caused the carbine to burst in the hands of the bandit. And you see now that, in memory of this miraculous assistance, they repaired the carbine with cords, and deposited it here, and it is the Christ who, since then, we implore help from. You knew nothing about it, Don Frederico?”

“Nothing, Momo,” he replied, in adding as if his own reflections: “If you know all that others are ignorant of, they who pretend know every thing.”

“Let us go! will you come?” said Momo after a moment’s silence. “You know I cannot wait.”

“I am fatigued,” replied Stein; “go along, I will wait for you here.”

“God protect you!” and Momo resumed his route, singing:

Stein contemplated this little village, so tranquil, at once fishing, commercial, and laborious.

It was not like the villages of Germany, an assemblage of houses scattered without order, with their roofs of straw, and their gardens; they resembled in no way those of England, sheltered by the shades of their large trees; nor those of Flanders, which retired to the borders of the roads. It was composed of large streets, although badly made, where the houses, without separate stories, were of various heights, and covered with old tiles; windows were rare, and still more rare, glass and every species of ornament.

But the village contained a grand square, which, in spring, was green as a prairie; on this square was situated a beautiful church: the general aspect was one of charming neatness.

Fourteen crosses, of dimensions equal to that which was near to Stein, were placed equidistant from each other; the last, which was raised in the middle of the square, was opposite to the church: it was the Road of the Cross.

Momo came back, but with a companion, who was old, tall, dry, thin, and stiff as a wax taper. This man was dressed in a coat and pantaloons made of coarse gray cloth; a waistcoat enamelled in faded colors, and embellished with some repairs, real chef-d’oeuvres of their kind; a red belt, such as is worn by the peasants; a slouched hat with large rim, ornamented with a cockade which had been red, and which time, the rain, and the sun had colored with the brilliant shades of a watermelon. On each shoulder was a narrow strip of lace, probably destined to secure two much-used epaulets; and then an old sword, suspended from a belt of the same age, completed this ensemble, half military and half rural. Long years had exercised great ravages upon the front part of the long and narrow skull of this being. To supply the natural ornament, he had coaxed towards the forehead the sad remnant of his head of hair, and fixing them there by means of a cord of black silk on the top of his skull, he formed a tuft as gracious as that of a Chinese coxcomb.

“Momo, who is this man?” asked Stein in a low voice.

“The commandant,” the other replied, very simply.

“The commandant of what?” anew asked Stein.

“Of the Fort de San Cristobal.”

“The Fort de San Cristobal!” cried Stein in ecstasy.

“Your servant,” said the newly arrived, saluting him with courtesy; “my name is Modesto Guerrero, and I place at your entire command my useless services.”

The compliment of usage had an application so exact to him who made it, that Stein could not resist a smile in returning his military salute.

“I know who you are,” pursued Don Modesto; “I have taken a prominent part in your contretemps and your misfortunes; I congratulate you on your re-establishment, and on your rencounter with the Alerzas, who are, by my faith, very good kind of people. My person and my house are entirely at your orders; I reside at the Plaza de la Iglesia, that is to say, Place of the Constitution, for that is the name at present. If sometime you would favor it with a visit, the inscription will indicate to you the place.”

“As if he possessed all the village!” said Momo with a sneer.

“Then there is an inscription?” again demanded Stein, who, in the busy life of a camp, had never had time to learn the language of studied compliments, and could not therefore reply to those of the courteous Spaniard.

“Yes, sir,” replied Don Modesto, “the subordinate should obey the orders of his superiors. You should comprehend that in this little village it is not easy to procure a slab of marble with letters of gold, like those you can purchase in Cadiz or Seville. We must have recourse to the schoolmaster, who writes a good hand, and who, to paint the inscription on the walls of common houses, is obliged to place himself at a certain height. The schoolmaster prepared a black color with soot and vinegar mixed, mounted the ladder, and commenced the work by tracing the letters about a foot long. Unfortunately, in wishing to make an elegant flourish, he gave such a violent shake to the ladder that it fell to the earth, carrying with it in its fall the schoolmaster with his pot of black, and all rolled together into the stream. Rosita, my hostess, who from the window had been a witness of this catastrophe, and having seen the unfortunate man come out black as coal, was frightened to that degree that she went into spasms, and continued thus for three days; and in truth I was myself not without some uneasiness. The Alcalde, notwithstanding, gave orders to the poor bruised schoolmaster to complete his work, and saw that the inscription gave only the letters CONSTI. The unfortunate man was ill at ease, but this time he would not use the ladder; he would bring a cart, and place a table on it, and secure it with strong cords. Hoisted upon this improvised scaffolding, the poor devil was so astounded that, reflecting on his accident, he had but one thought, which was, to complete his work as speedily as possible. This is the reason why the last letters, in lieu of being a foot long like the first, are not longer than your thumb; and that is not the worst of it—in his eagerness he forgot one letter at the bottom of his pot of black; and the inscription thus appears:

Momo, who carried on his shoulder some saddlebags, well filled, and who was in a hurry, asked the commandant if he was going to Fort San Cristobal.

“I go there, and on my way I will first go to see the daughter of Pedro Santalo; she is ill.”

“Who! The Gaviota?” asked Momo; “don’t believe it: I saw her yesterday on the top of a rock, screaming like the sea-gull.”

“Gaviota!” said Stein, with surprise.

“It is,” said the commandant, “a wicked nickname, which Momo has given this young girl.”

“Because she has long legs,” replied Momo, “because she lives equally on the sea and on the earth, because she sings, cries, and leaps from rock to rock like the seagulls.”

“Your grandmother,” replied Don Modesto, “loves her much, and never calls her any thing but Marisalada (witty Maria), on account of her piquant frolics, the grace of her song and her dance, and her beautiful imitation of the singing of birds.”

“It is not that,” replied Momo. “It is because that her father is a fisherman, and brings us salt and fish.”

“And does she live near the port?” asked Stein, whose curiosity was much excited by all these details.

“Very near,” replied the commandant. “Pedro Santalo possessed a bark: having made sail for Cadiz he encountered a tempest, and was shipwrecked on our coast. All perished, crew and cargo, with the exception of Pedro and his daughter, whom he had with him; the desire to save her doubled his strength: he gained the shore, but his ruin was complete. His sadness and discouragement were so profound that he would not return to his country. With the debris of his bark he constructed a little skiff among the rocks, and commenced as a fisherman. It was he who furnished the convent with fish: the brothers in exchange gave him bread, oil, and vinegar. It is now twelve years that he has lived here in peace with all the world.”

This recital finished when they had arrived at a point where the paths divide into two roads.

“I will return soon,” said the old commandant; “in an instant I will be at your disposal, and salute your hosts.”

“Say to Gaviota,” cried Momo, “that her illness does not alarm me, bad weeds never die.”

“Has the commandant been long at Villamar?” asked Stein of Momo.

“Let me count—a hundred and one years before the birth of my father.”

“And who is this Rosita, his hostess?’

“Who? SeÑorita Rosa Mistica!” replied Momo, with grotesque gesture. “It is a first love: she is uglier than hunger; she has one eye which looks to the east, and the other to the west; and her face, which the small-pox has not spared, is filled with cavities, each sufficient to hold an echo. But, Don Frederico, the heavens scorch, the clouds rush as if they would pursue us—let us hasten our steps.”