Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

"At you then!" exclaimed Don Leonardo, rendered furious by her impassibility, and breaking away from Don Gaspar's hold.

Josefa awaited his onset firmly, her drawn sword extended in her hand, like a statue of the avenging angel. Don Leonardo rushing at her, blind with rage, thrust himself right upon her rapier, which pierced him through and through; and, before he had time to utter a cry, he fell a lifeless corpse at Don Gaspar's feet.

Don Gaspar, who had no idea that there was any truth in Josefa's declaration of her sex, felt no inclination to measure his sword against so successful an antagonist; but, in order not to appear to avoid the fray ignominiously, bent down and busied himself with the effort to remove the body of his cousin.

"It is your turn now, Don Gaspar!" said the avenging angel calmly, having just withdrawn her sword from the breast of her prostrate victim. "Stand on guard, for your hour has come!"

This confident assertion, and the conviction that the encounter could not be escaped, excited Don Gaspar almost to the same pitch of indignation as Don Leonardo had displayed, notwithstanding that he was by nature less irascible.

"Think not to find so easy a victory a second time!" he exclaimed.

"It matters little," replied the lady calmly; "you have killed my life already, when you killed Don Pedro!"

While she was yet speaking, Don Gaspar had already rushed to the encounter; and she, standing with her trusty sword prepared to meet him, sent his body to measure the ground, and his soul to its account, after the same manner that she had served Don Leonardo.

Meantime the bandying of angry words and the clash of steel had not been unheard by the guests, who were even then traversing the alameda, as the banquet of Don Juan Mancilla broke up. Quickly as the contest had been carried through there was still time for many persons to assemble, and there was every chance of Josefa being caught and handed over to justice. All sank away, however, before the high and innocent glance of her flashing eyes and the noble mien, which stood surety hers had been no vulgar aim.

"The Sanctuary of S. Francis may yet be reached," whispered an old nobleman, who perceived at a glance that the young stranger belonged to his order, which he had rather not see subjected to the ordeal of a public inquisition. "Here, boy, follow me. Courage!" he added, as he observed she had hardly energy left to move from the spot; "we shall soon be there."

Doña Josefa, so courageous anon, felt palsied at the sight of the advancing strangers, and the apprehension of having all her motions and manoeuvres sifted in the vulgar sieve of public opinion. She knew what she had done could only be judged and appreciated by the few who had felt what she had felt. This very terror at last nerved her to take the old man's counsel; and so, wrapping her wide cloak around her, she followed at a little distance, delicacy prompting her to avoid appearing to belong to him, so that he might not be compromised through his good-nature. All those who were about at the time were men of similar position, who judged that the course adopted was the wisest, and so Josefa and her guide proceeded to their journey's end without molestation. Arrived at the church door, the old nobleman pointed to the entrance and passed on his way.

Josefa began to explain to an old Brother who kept the door the misadventure which had brought her thither, but it was more than she could do to conclude the narrative, her feeble powers were already overstrained, and she sank fainting at his feet. For several days she was carefully tended in the hospital; and one day, when the noise of the affair had blown over, and the knowledge that she had taken refuge in the Sanctuary had quieted the pursuit of justice, she sent a messenger to the inn to fetch the swift courser she had left there on arriving, and under favour of the darkness of the evening set out to return to Valencia.

She had travelled a considerable distance without accident, when suddenly she perceived three travellers coming towards her; the moon shone brightly, and her keen eyes, quickened by natural feminine apprehension, were not slow to make out that they were of the kind most unwelcome under the circumstances, though to meet any one was awkward enough.

She had no time to consider what she should do, for the strangers were advancing at a rapid pace; nor were they slow to declare their character. The chief called out to her before they had even come up, to 'stand and deliver.' The only circumstance in her favour was that they stood on the narrow ledge of a mountain path, the one closely packed behind the other as one man.

"It is idle to attempt to resist us, young gallant," cried the leader as he saw her draw her sword; "we are too many for one even as valiant as I dare say you fancy yourself; besides, there are more of us behind who will soon be up."

Doña Josefa uttered no boast, she took up a firm position; her fine well-tempered rapier extended in her hand received them on its point, and threaded them through as they came, one behind the other.

But, alack! the strong men, in the contortions of their last agony, overstepped the narrow footing of the path, and fell over the brink, carrying in their bodies the trusty sword which had stood her in such good stead.

"There are more of us behind who will soon be up!" she repeated to herself, as with dogged determination she still held up against her misfortunes, and proceeded on her way for a wind or two of the path without disturbing incidents. One more turn and there stood before her three more bandits in the same order as the last. She had her trabuco [15] ready to aim, and her aim was so steady, that before they had time to perceive her purpose, her ball had pierced through the three of them, and they were sent rolling over the precipice, to join the bodies of their companions below.

Whether Josefa thought that these exploits might bring her into fresh conflict with the arm of the law, or whether the fresh horrors gave a gloomy turn to her mind, and indisposed her for venturing home, I know not; but whatever her motive, she made up her mind at this point of the journey to continue her wanderings only as far as Barcelona, and there take ship to make a pilgrimage to Rome.

The sea was not much more propitious to poor Doña Josefa's fortunes than the land had been. The vessel on which she had embarked had not been two days out before it was attacked by Algerine Corsairs, who took every soul on board prisoners, and carried them off to Africa, where they were sold as slaves.

It fell to Josefa's lot to be bought by a rich renegade of Tunis, whom she served under the name of Pedro, a name she deemed she had a certain right to take. The renegade was much pleased with her soft discreet manners, and general superiority and uprightness of character; and soon advanced her to the post of steward over his household, having her first instructed in the Arabic tongue. Things went smoothly enough for some time; but when she had been in this service about three years, it happened that one day, when the master was gone out hunting, a maid-servant, who held a high place in the household, and whose forwardness the supposed Pedro had often noticed, came and made a free confession of an irrepressible affection for him, and entreated him to marry her. Josefa, much annoyed at the incident, could only answer that it was impossible: for she had not confidence in the girl to trust her with her secret.

The enraged girl, furious at the repulse, swore by Mahomet to be revenged; accordingly, no sooner was the master returned, than she went to him with every token of distress and indignation, and accused Pedro of abusing his power as steward of the house, and having sought to force her to marry him although she had resisted because he was a Christian, and the law of Mahomet forbade such an union.

The master, highly incensed at the perfidy of the slave he had treated with so much forbearance and indulgence, ordered him to be thrown into a dungeon and starved to death, without hearing any defence.

Such would indeed have been Josefa's fate, but that one of the slaves who respected her brought her daily the scanty means of subsistence she was able to secure. At the end of several days the master, coming to the dungeon to see what had befallen, was greatly provoked to find her not only alive but comparatively well, and took up a cord to administer summary chastisement.

This indignity was more than Josefa could endure; to avert it, she begged him to listen to her; told him she could easily prove the falsity of the accusation under which she was suffering, seeing she was a woman.

The master was delighted to hear the exculpation of his favourite slave, and immediately had her released and reinstated in her authority, and the shameless accuser consigned to the same prison.

From this time he continued to extend his favour and confidence towards her: of all the people about him who shared his pleasures and his riches, she was the only one to whom he could talk of the absorbing agony of his soul, the remorse for having renounced his religion and become a renegade. The result was that he one day announced to her that he had made arrangements for realizing the greater part of his fortune, which he divided in two parts, one of which he bestowed on her; with the other he had resolved to go to Rome in pilgrimage and endow a shrine, where he would pass the remainder of his days in prayer and penance.

He had found a merchant of his acquaintance who would take them in his ship to Alicante, whence he would start again for Rome, and Josefa would be free either to continue her journey thither or return to Valencia.

Josefa's desire of once more embracing her parents made her elect the latter course. Their plan was executed to the letter without hindrance.

Arrived once more at Valencia, Josefa was not slow to find her way to her father's palace. An old servant who had been in the house before she was born, and watched her grow up, opened the door, but did not recognize her, which she took for a presage that she might come unknown into her parents' presence also.

She found them seated side by side, and bewailing the loss of their only child.

"I have come to tell you," she broke in, "that your child is now in this very city; three years and a half she has been a captive slave in Tunis, though not serving as a slave, for she was absolute master of the household of her owner. And at the end of that time he gave her her liberty together with a large fortune in money."

"Oh, sir, tell us where is she!" ejaculated Don Juan Ramirez; "let our aged eyes rest on her again before we die, so shall we be consoled for our troubles!"

Then Doña Josefa threw off her disguise, and falling on her knees before them, entreated their pardon for all her errors and all the anxiety she had given them.

Having received that, she told them she had determined to pass the rest of her days in penitence in a convent, which she did with their hearty approval; and in this kind of life she spent many years, affording a lively and edifying example to all. And thus ended in peace the tragic adventures of Doña Josefa Ramirez y Marmolejo.

THE STEEPLE OF COVEÑA.

At a very little distance from Madrid you may already discern against the horizon the outline of the steeple of Coveña, which is one of the handsomest edifices of New Castile; and all the thitherward way it is before you, standing against the sky as a landmark to the traveller.

The people are so proud of having a church which bears so unusual a proportion to the size of their village, that they will not allow it was designed by any architect of less renown than Juan de Herrera, the architect of the Escorial, whom another tradition declares to have had a hand in the works at St. Peter's, in Rome.

Nor are they satisfied with the mere statement; they are also very circumstantial in their account of his connexion with it, though both are declared to be quite apocryphal. They say he was so pleased with this work of his genius that he had it produced entirely under his own eye. He watched while the foundations were laid, while the materials were collected round the spot, while every stone was laid in its place; in fact, he was never tired of looking at it: now he would take a long walk into the country to enjoy its appearance in the distant view; now he would stand in the plaza beneath, and gaze up at the storied decorations with which his fancy had invested it; now he would mount the interior staircase of the tower, and look down from the monument he had raised, upon the insignificant dwellings with which it was surrounded.

On one of these latter expeditions he observed that he was one day followed by Andres, his son, a boy of some fifteen years of age. The circumstance pleased him, because he had noticed with growing sorrow that Andres on many occasions had failed to display that fearless disposition which is the characteristic of a brave and generous spirit. Through an opening in the tracery he turned to watch, from a higher stage, the boy's proceedings. For a certain distance he mounted steadily enough, but in proportion as he got higher and had completed more turnings, giddiness seemed to overcome him. Juan de Herrera began to lose patience. The boy wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down in a recess. Herrera felt so provoked that he could not restrain an impetuous movement; slight as was the attendant noise, it struck upon the boy's excited nerves; he started from his resting-place, trembling like an aspen leaf.

"What's the matter, Andres, my boy?" cried his father, to reassure him: "it is only I, your father."

"I'm all right!" replied Andres, ashamed to be caught under a display of weakness.

"Then come on, boy; and don't sit panting like a broken-winded horse. There, put your head out of that slit in the wall, and look down and see what a fine height I have made this tower. You'll see Dolores and Pepito and Luis and Mariquilla playing in the plaza, and they will look like ants from this high tower."

Andres somewhat recovered from his exertions and his alarm, and, curious to see his playmates looking "like ants," summoned sufficient courage to put his head through the loophole.

For the first time the boy experienced the effect of the giddy height; he hung back and turned pale, then pressed his hands against the wall for support.

"Coward! you don't mean to say you are afraid!" exclaimed Juan de Herrera.

"Oh--no--I'm not afraid," stammered poor Andres, making a convulsive effort to look out through the slit once more.

This time he remained so long opposite the opening and so steadily, that his father hoped he had got over the first fears; but, watching him anxiously, he observed, as he at length turned away, that he had his eyes closed.

Indignant that his son should not have as robust courage as the peasant boys of the village, and still more that he should not be in a condition to enjoy his favourite structure, Juan de Herrera, unable to master his irritation, loaded the boy with reproaches; and Andres slunk away, grieved at having distressed his father, yet unable to summon courage sufficient to satisfy his wishes.

Some days after this, the consecration of the church took place, and the municipal functionaries invited the architect and his son to a banquet on the occasion, at which were assembled all the notabilities of the place, as well as many from neighbouring villages, and even from Madrid. Juan de Herrera deemed, with more zeal than judgment, that this would be a favourable opportunity for curing his son of his weakness, and to effect this narrated to the company the circumstance stated above.

"Father, it was a passing folly," cried the boy, burning with shame; "give me an opportunity, and I will show you that I do not deserve your opinion."

There was a pause, for the boy spoke with such thrilling earnestness that the smile of derision which had been raised at his expense died away from every lip.

"The galera [16] has just brought down the cross and ball for the summit of the steeple," continued Andres; "let me go up and place it, and I shall have had the merit of crowning your work."

"You will never dare it!" answered Juan de Herrera contemptuously.

"Let me show you I am not so bad," pleaded Andres.

"Bear in mind, boy, that if your courage fails when you get to that height it will cost you your life."

"Don't be afraid; my courage will not be wanting," replied Andres.

"Be it so then," rejoined Juan de Herrera; "to-morrow you shall show what you are worth," and he clasped the boy's hand to encourage him in his courageous resolution, and all round the table applauded his pluck.

The next morning found all who were at the banquet, and many more whose curiosity the report of the story had excited, gathered in the plaza round the Church of Coveña. There at the foot of the steeple lay shining the huge cross and ball, newly clad with gilding and bound with strong ropes, by means of which it was to be hoisted over the ready adjusted pulleys into its place.

"If you don't feel up to the mark, you had better give in, even now!" whispered Juan de Herrera, under the porch. "It is still time; and, mind, it is no easy task!"

"My head is quite steady," answered Andres, piqued to find his father still doubted his daring; and, his head erect, without waiting to hear another word of warning, he commenced the ascent of the spiral stair at a rapid pace.

Not altogether free from uneasiness, Juan de Herrera went out to watch the result from the stone cross in the centre of the plaza. The whole crowd was nearly as breathless and anxious as the father, but before two minutes had elapsed Andres was seen emerging from behind one of the pinnacles of a platform, level with the beam on which the bell had been hung a few days before.

A shudder seized the throng, for some one whispered that he had heard the bell sound as the youth passed by, and the rest took up the words and repeated under their breath with superstitious terror, "La campana ha tocado á muerto [17]!"

Herrera, meantime, stood leaning against the cross a little way from the crowd, and too much absorbed to catch the report. He seemed quite tranquil and had heard no sound.

Most probably the lad had touched the clapper as he passed it.

Meantime Andres was steadily mounting a step-ladder placed on the roof by which the final stage was to be reached, and from the steps was engaged in arranging the support that was to receive the ball.

The workmen below were drawing the pulleys, and the ornament had nearly reached the summit; as it rose, Andres had to mount two steps more. He raised his foot, but his courage failed.

"My son is lost, for he hesitates!" cried the terror-stricken father, in a hoarse voice.

The multitude took up the cry; but, simultaneously with its utterance, the luckless boy was precipitated to the ground, dashing against one of the buttresses as he fell.

Juan de Herrera, adds the tradition, was never seen to smile again.

One day he went up to the top of the lantern of St. Lorenzo of the Escorial, and gazed over towards Coveña. It seemed to him that he saw two fiery eyes glaring upon him from the steeple which had once been his pride.

Eight days after he was found a corpse. It was the anniversary of the death of his son.

ANOTHER FAIR MAID OF ZARAGOZA.

The title of the courageous maid who helped to defend the walls of her native Zaragoza against the assault of the French invaders, has already become a household word among us. The troubles of the early part of Queen Isabella's reign elicited another instance of feminine constancy, which has likewise received its tribute of local celebration, though exhibited in a more confined and womanly sphere.

Two sisters, Jacinta and Isabella, lived in Zaragoza with their brother, Don Froilan. Among their acquaintance were two intimate friends, Don Pablo and Don Matias, who both held commissions in the National Militia. Don Matias was a handsome, generous young man, and a general favourite, but also somewhat light-hearted and unscrupulous. Don Pablo, on the other hand, was of a more solid, thoughtful character, rather respected after long acquaintance than liked at first sight. Now the characters of the two sisters, Jacinta and Isabella, were very much like those of their two friends; Jacinta being light and thoughtless, and Isabella steady and reflective; yet in spite of this, Don Pablo was more fascinated by Jacinta's brilliant qualities than by Isabella's good and careful ways; while Isabella's good sense had taught her to prefer such a character as Don Pablo's. And it was with a bleeding heart she saw it agreed between him and her giddy sister that they were to be united for ever. Her sisterly affection, however, forbid her to do more than sigh in secret, and sigh she did many a day; not only for her own loss, but for Don Pablo, whom she sincerely respected. For her light-hearted sister, in spite of her engagement to him, used to continue to be very merry with Don Matias too.

Just before the day appointed for the wedding, an émeute broke out at some little distance, and the Zaragoza Militia was ordered out to quell the disturbance. The world of Zaragoza turned out to see the military array; and Don Froilan took his sisters on to the Cosa [18], along with the rest; and while Jacinta chatted merrily with both Don Pablo and Don Matias, as if they were going out to a review instead of to fight, Isabella, impressed with the danger of the situation, and the chance of never seeing her dear friend again, could hardly bring herself to bid them adieu.

Time passed on, and no certain tidings came of the fate of the two officers. Every day there were conflicting reports, but nothing reliable as to individual results.

At last a day came when the Zaragoza regiment returned, covered with laurels and with hardly any losses from its ranks.

The Cosa was thronged with people welcoming the safe return of their fellow townsmen. Jacinta was soon in earnest conversation with Don Matias, while Isabella leant against a tree for support, as her gazing eyes vainly sought Don Pablo.

Soon the truth was learnt from Don Matias. After waiting about in the cover of houses and trees and hillocks for the insurgents for some time, they had come to an open engagement with them, in which they were in a short time entirely routed by the gallant Militia, who came off with only two killed and half a dozen wounded--but one of those two left for dead on the field was no other than Don Pablo! It needed all Isabella's fortitude and self-command to avoid showing greater agony at this announcement than was consistent with her having no nearer tie than that of an intended sister-in-law, while Jacinta, who had no self-control, burst into a fearful excitement of grief.

Taking Isabella's assumed calmness of manner for indifference towards the absent, the young officer within a few hours of his return began paying her attentions. Jacinta's jealousy at this quenched all her light grief for Don Pablo, and Don Matias soon found that his suit would have far more chance of fortune with her. With characteristic fickleness he lost no time in urging it in the quarter where it met with favour, and pushed it so warmly that their marriage was fixed for an early day, being but a month from that on which Don Pablo was believed to have fallen.

To faithful Isabella's intense disgust, not only was the wedding so hurried on, but all Zaragoza was invited to a grand ball to celebrate the occasion. Dressed in deep mourning she refused to have any thing to do with the festivity; but, on the contrary, ordered a funeral service to be celebrated in the church to the memory of her lost hero.

It was just at this juncture, while the music of the marriage-ball [19] was sounding merrily through the open windows of Don Froilan's house, and the solemn doble [20] was ringing from a neighbouring church, that Don Pablo, healed of his wounds, and choosing the cool of the evening for his journey, came through the streets of Zaragoza, well wrapt up in his military cloak, intending to make straight for the house of his affianced bride. He stopped, however, at the barbiere's to have his hair and beard, long neglected during the campaign, made presentable. The barbiere is an institution in Spain which almost supplies the place of an English club. Men go in to submit to the barber's attentions, and while they are under his hands, or waiting their turn, they have leisure to discuss with each other the news and gossip of the day.

Don Pablo was, as we have said, a serious man; his habits were reserved and homely, he had never cared for the barber's gossip, and his habit had been to manage his shaving arrangements at home, so he was no acquaintance of the barber. Accordingly, he came in on this occasion unrecognized.

"Strange are the vicissitudes of human life!" he exclaimed, as he seated himself in the barber's chair--for he was somewhat of a philosopher. "Marriage-music and funeral-bells sounding at the same time--what a strange lesson!"

"Stranger still," broke in the prattling barber, "if your worship knew what reference each bears to the same person!"

"To the same person!" rejoined Don Pablo; "how can that possibly be?"

"Why, the bells are for a funeral service for a distinguished officer, lost in the late encounter; and the merry music is for the marriage of his betrothed to a brother-officer!"

Don Pablo started as if he had been shot. The barber noticed his emotion. "Your worship doubtless knows the officer of whom I speak," replied the barber.

"Ye--es, I do--o!" stammered Don Pablo, relieved to find the barber had not hit nearer the mark. "You speak of Don Pablo, of course?"

"Of course I do!" exclaimed the barber; "no one has spoken of any one else these last days. And here come some of his friends round the corner; if you want to hear them speak of him you have only to listen. I'll warrant he is the subject of their talk."

"I should like to hear what they say," said Don Pablo, whose curiosity was strongly excited by these revelations about himself; "but it might embarrass them to see so near a friend to him as I was, here."

"Step to this unlighted window, and you will hear all without being seen."

Don Pablo did as he was bid, and readily distinguished a group of his acquaintances, with Don Froilan in their midst, standing at the barber's door, lighting their cigars [21].

"How now, Don Froilan!" exclaimed Don Lupercio; "a ball at your own house in honour of your sister's wedding, and you out here!"

("Ah, poor fellow!" said Don Pablo to himself, "he won't countenance his sister's fickleness. He was always a great friend of mine.")

"Why, to tell you the truth," replied Don Froilan, "the first part of a ball is always dull work. I have set them going, and I'm off to the opera. I always enjoy the second act of an opera; it's the cream of the whole. I shall just skim that off, and then run back to the best of the ball."

("So," said Don Pablo, sadly, "this is the man I have so often helped through his difficulties! And I really thought he cared for me!")

"Now, really!" said Don Mariano, "I thought you were going to say that you had come out to attend the funeral service for your friend Don Pablo----"

("Ah, yes, that would have been more like a friend!" sighed Don Pablo.)

"A--a--funeral service? no--no, I'm not fond of that sort of thing, it's so melancholy! And then what's the use--if the fellow died, as I've no doubt he did, without so much as saying an 'Our Father,' what's the use of praying for him?"

("The atrocious calumny!" exclaimed Don Pablo; "and not one of them to say a word in my defence!")

An awkward pause ensued, which was broken by the gallant young Don Antonio: "And while we are wasting our time here, your sisters are dancing away and charming every one, as usual!"

("Dancing away while the church bells are tolling for poor me!")

"My sisters--eh? No--o, not exactly; that is, only one of them. Jacinta is dancing, of course; but Isabella--a--won't--a--come in. I believe she's gone to the church instead."

("So, indeed, there's one of them at least who hasn't forgotten me! And one, too, whose remembrance is more worth having than all the others' put together!")

"Indeed!" replied Don Lupercio; "but I thought it was the other sister who had been more attached to him."

"Attached? ah, yes--in one way; that is, she was engaged to him; but as to attachment, that is, of the heart--between you and me--it was Isabella who cared for him. Jacinta, you see, only wanted to be married, and Don Matias will do just as well for that--ha, ha, ha!"

"You don't surprise me," responded young Don Antonio, who generally knew which way the ladies' inclination turned. "Something of this I suspected too."

"And I," added Don Mariano.

("Fool that I was!" growled Don Pablo; "all these butterflies saw it, and I never ventured to think of it! I looked on her as a priestess, a goddess--I never ventured to think of her in any other way. She was always so grand and grave; and Jacinta was so accessible.")

"But, good evening, gentlemen! I shall really miss the opera, if I stand chatting any longer," broke in Don Froilan.

They dispersed: Don Froilan bending his steps towards the opera, and the rest towards the ball-room. Meantime, sadly veiled in black, and attended by Ramon, the old and trusty family-servant, Isabella crossed the street, and entered the church as the last tolls were sounding.

"There she goes to pray for me--it is true enough!--while others are dancing!" exclaimed Don Pablo, rapturously. "But I'll have my joke with Don Froilan yet."

"Barber!" he cried, "send me a notary, quick! I've some important business which must be transacted instantly."

"On the instant, your worship!" replied the barber. "There is one lodging, luckily, in the sixth floor of this very house."

Ten minutes' conference with the notary settled the affair. Then he bid him run with the paper to Don Froilan's box at the theatre [22], and took up his station again at the window, to have the happiness of seeing Isabella once more as she came out of the church, and also to take the chance of enjoying the effect of the paper he had sent to Don Froilan. Nor did he wait long. In less time than he would have thought possible, Don Froilan came running out of the opera, hurrying to take his place at the funeral service, and give a public token of his attention to the deceased. But the doors were closed, and Don Pablo's thoughts were diverted from her brother by the sight of Isabella, pale and haggard, her eyes worn with tears, coming out of the church, leaning on Ramon's arm.

"What! is it too late?" cried Don Froilan, stumbling against her on the steps in the dark. "Oh dear, how hard! and I made such haste to come!"

"But why this sudden haste, brother?" replied Isabella, contemptuously. "This morning you chid me for disturbing the ball!"

"Hush, child! if I did it, it was to please Jacinta--it was quite, quite against my own inclination. Oh, why wasn't I by to assist him in his last moments?"

"But why all this sudden grief now?"

"Sudden! it's not sudden; you know I always loved him as a brother; and here's the proof of how well he loved me. A notary has just brought me a will he left with him before he went to the war, constituting me his heir to all he had, dear fellow!"

Isabella pushed by him with a movement of disdain, which perfectly delighted Don Pablo, and made her way mournfully into the house, attended as before by Ramon.

Don Pablo lost little time in following her. Who could be proof against so much constancy? If he had looked on her as an inaccessible divinity before, he felt sufficient encouragement now to tell her that he thought so.

The faithful Ramon was very ready to lend his assistance, and Don Pablo having taken him into confidence he dexterously managed to break the good news of his resurrection to his young mistress, who consented to come down to the ball-room and confront her brother and sister on Don Pablo's presenting himself there too. The consternation caused by his appearance was of course very great. Some of the ladies nearly fainted. Don Froilan guessed the trap he had fallen into, and turned away to cover his shame as well as disappointment at the loss of the inheritance. Jacinta and Matias hid their faces behind her fan; while Isabella and Pablo joined their loving hands amid the joyful congratulations of their assembled friends.

JUANITA THE BALD; OR, A DAUGHTER'S LOVE.

There lived once upon a time on the banks of the Tagus a poor shepherd named Juan; and he was as honest as he was poor, and as contented as he was honest. He had just enough wages to buy the coarse meal which supported him and his hard-working wife, Consolacion. A zamarra, or suit of rough sheepskin, which served to keep out the cold for several years together, was afforded him from the flock, and with weaving and knitting Consolacion provided the rest of their scanty wardrobe.

Now Juan had a large flock confided to his care, and his master reposed entire trust in him; but if he never had the provocation of being looked after, neither had he ever the satisfaction of being praised. Yet, notwithstanding this lack of all earthly stimulus, Juan was always faithful to his trust: no sheep ever strayed that he did not seek out over the barren waste and the steep mountain-side; no little lamb was ever left by any sad accident without its dam, but he brought it home to Consolacion, and the honest pair reared it as tenderly as if it had been their own infant.

But if Juan's master neglected to commend his integrity, there was One who did not forget him, but kept a just account of all his actions. Thus it chanced one day, when after a long drought the herbage was dried up, and he had had endless trouble in keeping his flock together, as the poor things would wander hither and thither while seeking pasture, that at last he got led away far from home, along a wild path he had never trodden before, and the country all around him looked strange, and yet there was the track of his runaway sheep before him, and on and on he went. The way was sandy, and the sun was fierce, and at last his strength failed him; footsore and dispirited he sank down at the foot of a tree, whose shelter he vainly sought, as its foliage had long been burnt up by the parching sun, and only the bleached trunk and thirsty branches remained. Half maddened with thirst and heat, he fell into a sort of trance, and he thought he saw an ancient hermit of severe aspect standing before him, who chid him that he lay there taking his rest while his master's sheep were astray, calling him only a zagal (or shepherd's helper).

Juan did not lose his temper at the reprimand, but meekly begged forgiveness, and endeavoured to rise that he might get him upon his way again. His strength failed him, however, and he sank once more upon the ground. Then, in the place of the hermit, he saw before him a beautiful child with a shepherd's crook in his hand, and carrying a lamb in his bosom, who told him to be comforted, for he had found his sheep, and fed them, and led them safely home to the fold. He commended too his faithful service, and told him that he was come to offer him a reward, and gave him the choice of three. The first was a large sum of money, with which he could go down to one of the rich seaports of Spain and trade. The second was a grand castle in the mountains, where he would have ease and luxury and plenty of retainers to do his bidding. The third was to retain his present humble condition, while to his hearth was added the presence of a gentle daughter.

Then honest Juan did not hesitate which to choose. "Give me not money," said he, "for money begets covetousness, and codicia rompe el saco [23]. Give me not power, for I was not born to it, and the proverb of our forefathers says, A fallen rich man may make a good master, but not an enriched poor man (Sierve á un rico empobrecido y no á un pobre enriquecido). But give me--oh, give me a child to love me in my old age! I am but a poor, worthless servant to ask this thing--nevertheless, it is the bounty of God."

When Juan woke to consciousness, the great heat of the day had passed away, and his shaggy dog was licking his face, as if to warn him that he had but little time to get home before dark. Trusting to the animal's sagacity for guidance, he soon found his way home, where the sheep were safely folded, as the beautiful shepherd-child had promised, and Consolacion was waiting on the threshold of the hut, to welcome him home to supper.

To his other virtues Juan added humility, and, indeed, without it they would have been of little value; and it seemed so much like vanity to talk of his vision that he never mentioned a word of it, till it slipped off his tongue unawares years after. Nevertheless, before a twelvemonth was out, a dear little baby was found in Consolacion's arms, completing their simple happiness.

Juanita (little Janey)--so they called her--was beautiful as a child of promise should be, but her chief glory was the rich profusion of waving hair which covered her like a veil, and rested gracefully on the ground as she knelt in prayer. She grew up the joy of her parents, and being very docile soon learnt all the domestic arts of her mother, and was never so happy as when she was relieving her of her household cares. If they had any thing to complain of with her it was that she had quite a passion for admiring her beautiful hair; and when she was sent to the fountain she would sometimes waste hours looking at herself, and arranging it according to various fancies. But when her mother looked grave on her return, it was quite sufficient to keep her from offending so again for many days.

Thus many years of tranquil, homely joy passed away. Peace and gladness is not of long continuance in this world for the good, and Juan's time of trouble was at hand. First, it pleased Providence to take Consolacion to Himself; then, as a result of much weeping over her, and his great privations and long exposure to sun and weather, his eyes grew dim, and then his sight failed him entirely. Then the old dog, by whose help he still managed to keep the sheep together, in spite of his blindness, died too; and he was of no use any longer as a shepherd, and he had nothing left to him but Juanita. Juanita, it is true, fulfilled all a daughter's part, and by her industry supported him above actual want.

But her little head was always running on how his sight could be regained; and one day she revealed the result of her cogitations. "Father dear, do not all the wise people live in great cities? Let us now get us down to prosperous Segovia, or noble Toledo, or beautiful Sevilla, and let us find some of the cunning men to heal of whom we have heard, and get you back your sight."

But Juan lacked the courage to undertake so great a journey and expose his little daughter to all the attendant risks by the way; and he was a man of great patience to endure what the Lord sent; and so they remained in the mountain-hut for five years more. By that time Juanita was fifteen, and quite a little woman, and her advice began to have the weight of a woman's authority with her father, and at last she got him to consent to her often-urged prayer that they should journey to seek a doctor.

Juanita's ears had been ever open to learn every story of healing from every traveller who chanced to pass their cot, and in this way she had learnt the fame of a certain Jew mediciner, who dwelt at Toledo, and to Toledo therefore she was bent on directing their steps.

A beautiful sight it was to see the venerable old man leaning his hand, withered with honest labour, on the silken tresses of his courageous child. The way was long, but there was no lack of hospitality; the admiration of the peasants they passed was every where kindled by Juan's patience and Juanita's devotion, and a bite and a sup never failed them. At last they came to Toledo; and in a great city it was not so easy to find shelter, but God warmed to them the heart of an old woman who had herself suffered and learnt compassion by suffering; she gave them a bed, and Juanita's busy fingers, before long, provided means of subsistence.

Her next care was to make out the Hebrew doctor, which was not of the easiest, as those of his race were scarcely tolerated, and did not care to make themselves ostensible. However, a daughter's love overcomes all obstacles, and at last she found the means to bring her father before the wise man. Imagine her joy, when after all her labours, he pronounces with confidence that he can restore her father's sight! For a moment of joy, a twelve-month of anxiety, however. In another minute she has learnt that he demands 500 maravedis for the cure!

"Abate something for charity? What! charity to a dog of a Christian! Why, it was enough that he soiled his fingers with healing him, but to forego his pitiful fee too,--never! by the Holy City, never!"

Juanita could speak no word more for tears. In silence she placed her father's hand on her glittering hair, and in sadness guided his weak footsteps back to their poor shelter.

Hard work it had been to provide subsistence for them both, and to make a little extra to have something to offer to the lone widow, who had taken them in--but how hope ever to make up 500 maravedis? If in the first days of their arrival she had wasted some precious hours over her old favourite pastime of arranging her luxuriant tresses, and had taken pleasure when people called out in admiration--all that was gone by now. She sat at her little loom, work, work, work!--she never took her hands off, never lifted her eyes, never even saw that the barber who lived opposite was constantly gazing upon her. The only thing to cheer her was the placid voice of Juan, who would continually bid her be of good comfort and put her trust in God.

One day, in the midst of her toil, there came a messenger from the Corregidor of the city. His aunt had died that day, and as she died unmarried, a procession of girls equal in number to the years of her life must follow her to the grave, draped in white. She numbered eighty years, and Juanita was required to make up the eightieth attendant. Juanita could not say "Nay," even though it cost her such precious hours.

When she came into the hall where the mourners were assembled she found to her no slight disgust that the dress she had to wear consisted in part of a great white hood. It was hard, on the only day she suffered herself to part from her work, to have to cover up her glorious hair! At all events, till the procession began to move she would throw it back. She did so, and it made her look the picture of an angel, as it fell in rich curls over the white dress. At the same moment the Corregidor's wife passed through the hall. Though younger than her defunct sister-in-law she had arrived at that age when nature sometimes thinks it right to withdraw her gift of hair, and sorely did she lament the loss. For a long time past she had left an order with a clever barber of the city to manufacture her a wig which should make good the defect, and he was to swear it was no dead person's hair. She had a superstition that in wearing the hair of a dead person, you assumed the responsibility of all their sins, and, the good lady being sufficiently satisfied with her own position in the scale of grace, had no desire to run the risk of getting a worse one, even for the sake of the coveted wig. But a wig made of the hair of a living person was not an order easy to execute. The moment her eyes fell on Juanita's magnificent cabellera (head of hair) she determined that it should not be long before it should decorate her own head.

Accordingly, she hastened to call the Corregidor aside and assure him he must procure it for her. The Corregidor knowing the attachment a maiden was likely to have for such an adornment, endeavoured to convince her of the impossibility of the task. All was of no use, save to render her more resolute. The Corregidor knew that in disputes with his wife he always had to give in at last, and so, to pacify her, promised he would do his best, and to satisfy her that he did so the interview was arranged to take place in her presence.

The funeral was no sooner over than the Corregidor beckoned Juanita to follow him into his wife's room.

Poor little Juanita never thought of resisting an order from so great a functionary, but tripped along lightly behind him.

What was her surprise to find herself severely chid for wasting the time she might spend in working for her father in the vanity of decking out her hair! Juanita did not grow angry, or deny her fault, but could not forbear asking, with great simplicity, "Was it her fault if God had given her a great mass of hair to comb out?"

"Not your fault at all, my dear child," said the Corregidor, much relieved to find she took his admonitions so meekly. "Not your fault at all, so long as you keep it on your head; but you might cut it all off."

"Cut it off!" repeated poor Juanita, mechanically; "what would be the use of that?"

"Why, you might sell it, child. I myself would give you fifty maravedis for it."

"Give me fifty maravedis for it!" exclaimed the child, wondering what he could possibly want it for.

The Corregidor, fancying her surprise was dictated by indignation at the smallness of his offer, and incited by a gesture from his wife, impatient lest she should lose the prize, hastened to reply, "Well, if that does not content you, I'll give you 100 maravedis."

But Juanita's astonishment only increased; so she stared at him instead of answering.

"I'd even say 150," continued the Corregidor.

But Juanita only looked the more surprised. And so they went on, his anxiety bidding against her bewilderment, till at last he got up to 500 maravedis!

"500 maravedis!" echoed the child, as if waking from a trance at the words which brought back to memory the fee required to restore her father's sight. "Oh, yes! give me 500 maravedis, it is all yours at that!" And then the thought of her great loss made her burst into a flood of tears. It was a thought which for a moment almost overpowered her strong sense of filial piety, and in the depth of her little heart she half wished the Corregidor would repent of his bargain. But no such luck; at her first sign of yielding the lady had run off to fetch her largest scissors, and in a trice she had begun shearing at the glittering spoil. Down the bright silken masses fell on the snowy drapery, and beside them fell the child's pearly tears over her lost treasure. At last the sacrifice was complete; and poor Juanita stood in the midst of the ruin more dead than alive.

Then the Corregidor counted into her lap the promised sum, and the reckoning once more woke a sensation of joy. Wrapping her hood close round her, Juanita lost not a moment in flying to conduct her father to the house of the Jew.

Her thoughts were now entirely fixed on the moment of his restoration, but even this thought was embittered by the reflection that his one reason for desiring to have his sight back was to look on her--and she was no longer what she had been!

The strange alteration in her appearance soon got whispered about among the neighbours; and she got so much stared at that she never ventured into the street but when forced by sheer necessity, and then she ran along, looking neither to the right hand nor the left, and not even perceiving how considerately her opposite neighbour the barber followed her steps, and defended her from the rudeness of the street boys.

At last her father's tedious cure was completed, and she was admitted to see him. Some one had, unperceived by her, followed her respectfully all the way, ready to protect her at all hazards. In the zaguan (sort of vestibule) of the Jew's house this faithful follower confronted her, and she recognized the gallant barber at once. Gently pushing back her hood he substituted another covering for her head. Juanita put up her hand, and, to her surprise, found it tangled in the masses of her own rich hair! She stroked it with both hands, and found it all there, just as if by enchantment. Finding her dumb with astonishment, the barber hastened to explain that the wife of the Corregidor having sent the hair to him to make up, he had resolved no one should wear it but herself, and for the Corregidora he had put together the best match he could from the store he kept by him for such purposes. They were now interrupted by a summons from the Jew, who was ready to remove Juan's bandages. They no sooner reached the room where he was, than he ran and clasped Juanita in his arms, exclaiming, "God be praised that I can see you, my child--a few years' blindness are well repaid when it is reserved to one to see such a daughter as you!" Then, perceiving the barber, he embraced him too, and said, "God be praised for my sight! since I can now work for my living again, and repay you, my benefactor, for well I know, though I would never tell Juanita to increase her burden, that it is you who have paid the rent of our lodging all this time! My son, my dear son, what can I do for you?"

"There is one thing, father, you can do for me--one only thing, but it is too great to ask!"