Chapter V: Introduction (4)

"Nothing is too great to-day--ask away, boy, never fear!" The barber looked towards Juanita to gain courage, and, seeing her approving smile, fell on his knees and begged Juan to let him marry her. "With all my heart, if the wench so will," replied the old man; "I cannot see her wedded to an honester fellow!" Juan was not slow to read in her eyes what her sentiments were, and so, without more ado, he took the hand of each to place them in one another. But both drew back. The barber, with all his charity and delicacy and taste, was very ugly, and he could not believe in his good fortune; and Juanita had one condition to lay down first. "How now! what's this?" said the father. "Come, friend barber, explain yourself."

"Well, sir, I think it is but fair to give Juanita time to consider it all. I know I'm not so good-looking as her husband ought to be. Long ago should I have told her how I loved her but for this--but I dared not! I longed to offer the 500 maravedis over and over again, but I dared not speak to her; and now the joy is all so strange I feel I must not hurry her."

"Well spoken, young man! but, Juanita, what do you hang back for?"

"I--I have one little condition to make;" and she turned to the barber. "I have been thinking that we have not acted quite honestly with the Corregidora. She has a superstition against wearing dead people's hair, and she has paid honourably for that of a living person--so what she has bought must be taken back to her. Moreover, I recognize that all my life this hair has been a snare to me, and whenever I have been led from the path of duty it has been by its means--so I am resolved never to wear it again, and to be known in future by no other name but that of Juanita the Bald! What say you, are you content to marry me now?" The honest barber--perhaps on the whole not very sorry for a stipulation which put them somewhat nearer on a condition of equality in regard to personal appearance--only answered by clasping her in his embrace.

"What! what is all this," fell in the old man, "about hair and the Corregidora, and Juanita the--the Bald!--eh?" Then the barber was obliged to explain to him the sacrifice Juanita had made, first to obtain his cure, and again to her sense of honour, and her delicacy of conscience. The old man was quite unnerved by the recital. At first he was determined to resist her resolution; but his own mind was too well regulated not to acknowledge on reflection that she had chosen the good part.

Then, after blessing solemnly, both her and her betrothed, he exclaimed, "Did I not choose rightly from among the three gifts?" (in his humility he would not say rewards). "If I had chosen riches, they would have burst the bag and run away. And if I had chosen power, my retainers would have mocked my want of knowledge, and forsaken me. But a daughter's love--what can compare with it?"

STARVING JOHN THE DOCTOR.

No one was ever more appropriately named than 'Starving John.' He had nothing to live upon, yet he had a wife and a whole tribe of children to support: how to feed them all he knew not; and as for himself it was seldom enough he got a morsel to eat!

One day the cat caught a hare, and John's wife managed to take it from him; and having made a savoury mess of it, she put it into a wallet and said to John, "Here, take this hato [24]; it's a lucky taste of something nice, such as you don't often get; and go out into the fields with it before those sharks of children snatch it out of your mouth."

John, who was ready to die of hunger, didn't wait to be told twice, but set off running as fast as his legs would carry him. At last he came to an olive-grove; and there, making an easy-chair of a hollow olive-tree, he sat down to eat his hare, as happy as a king.

Somehow however--he could never tell how--there suddenly stood before him a dreadful old woman, all dressed in black: she had sunken eyes as dull as a blown-out candle, or a lamp-wick when the oil fails; her skin was as withered and yellow as a Simancas [25] parchment; her mouth like a clothes-basket; and her nose I don't know how to describe--for she had no nose at all to speak of.

"A pretty figure this to fall from heaven, like God's rain, on a poor fellow!" said John to himself; but as he was polite and hospitable, as a Spanish peasant always is, he nevertheless asked if she would share his meal.

This was just what the old creature wanted; down she sat, and at once attacked the hare. But it was not like ordinary eating, it was regular devouring; and, en un decir tilin [26], she had stowed away the whole mess between her heart and her shoulders!

John was too polite to grumble out aloud, but he said to himself, "Why, the children had better have had the hare than this old hag! but ¡el que tiene mala fortuna nada le sale derecho [27]!"

When his visitor had finished her meal--not leaving so much as the tail of the hare in the ollita [28]--she exclaimed, "Do you know, John, your hare was very good!"

"So I see," said John, who could not repress a little bitterness. And he added, ironically, in honour of her decrepit appearance, "¡viva Usted mil años [29]!"

"So I shall," answered the hag; "I have lived many thousands already, for I have to tell you I am no less a person than Death!"

John gave a start, and was like one struck dumb at this announcement.

"Don't be afraid, John," she continued, "I don't want to hurt you; and what is more, as you have treated me so well, I'll give you a good counsel in return. Make yourself a doctor--there's nothing like it for making money!"

"I am much obliged to you, Mistress Death," answered John, very respectfully, "but it will be quite return enough, if you'll promise to leave me alone for a good number of years. As to being a doctor, I've no notion how to set about it. I know neither Latin nor Greek; I can't write because my hand is palsied; and I can't read because I hate poring over those little black figures!"

"Go along with you, you silly fellow!" answered Mrs. Death; "you don't suppose any of this is necessary? It's I who lead the doctors, not they me. You are not such a goose as to think I go and come because they hiss me or call me, are you? when I get tired of any one, I take him by the ear and drag him off, doctor or no doctor. When the world began there were no doctors, and men lived to a good old age. But since they invented doctors there have been no more Methuselahs! You make yourself a doctor, as I advise you; and if you are perverse and obstinate, I'll carry you off with me, mas fijo que el reloj [30]! Don't prate!" she added, as she saw he was going to urge some objection; "this is all you have to do--when they call you into a bed-room look out for me. If you see me standing at the head of the bed, you'll know it's all up--you have only to say so, and they'll find you're a wise prophet. If, on the other hand, you don't see me, you have only to prescribe a dose of clean water, with any thing harmless you like in it, and the sick person will recover."

With that the ugly old lady took herself off, courtesying like a French dancing-mistress.

"I hope your worship won't forget, Mistress Death, what I asked you!" John cried after her--"your worship won't visit me again for a long time to come, eh?"

"Don't be afraid, John," she answered, as she disappeared, "until your house crumbles to pieces you won't have a visit from me."

John returned home to his wife, and told her all that had happened; and his wife, being sharper than he, determined to make use of Mrs. Death's advice, and in spite of his remonstrances spread about every where the news that her husband was a famous doctor--that he had only to look at a patient to tell whether he would live or die.

All the neighbours, however, only laughed at the idea of Starving John turning doctor in his old age, and called him "Don John" in ridicule.

One Sunday they went so far as to arrange a practical joke to show off his ignorance. A number of girls were to sit round a basket of figs, as they often did of a holiday afternoon in the fruit season, when, all of a sudden, one of them was to give a terrible cry as if taken ill, and some of the others were to carry her off to bed, while the rest ran for Starving John the Doctor.

John had no great faith in Mrs. Death's promises, and was loath to expose himself to the ridicule of the girls, but at his wife's urging he went along with them, when, lo and behold, he no sooner entered the room of the pretended patient, than he saw Mrs. Death herself standing at the head of the bed! "The girl is very ill indeed--too ill for me to save. She'll die before night!" pronounced John, in a knowing tone. And he went home amid the laughter of the assembled neighbours, who knew what the girls were playing at. But it so happened that the unfortunate girl had been eating the fruit too freely--that she was taken ill and died that very night!

As you will readily guess, this made Starving John's fortune.

Far or near, there was no patient slightly or dangerously ill to whom he was not called; fees flowed in like rain. No longer was he dressed in rags; his clothes were properly made by a tailor. Instead of his pinched, woebegone look, his face grew as ruddy as the sun; his withered hands, as smooth as pork-sausages; his shaking legs, as firm as marble columns; and his empty stomach assumed dimensions to vie with the dome of a church. For his children he bought honourable employments, and badges of office to sew on in front, and keys [31] to hang out behind.

But what he spared least of all was the money required to keep his house in good repair. He even salaried a bricklayer, whose business it was to see there was never so much as a tile loose, remembering that Mrs. Death had said she would never come to visit him till his house crumbled to pieces.

Years rolled by as John's fortune increased, but as prosperous years always roll away--fast; and then came less fortunate years. First his hair fell off, and then he lost his teeth; then his spine got curved like a reaping-hook; and then he grew halt in one of his legs. One day, when he was ill, Mrs. Death sent him a bat, with her compliments, to inquire after him; but John didn't like the look of the creature, and drove it away. After that he had a cough; and Mrs. Death sent an owl, to say she would come and see him very soon, and John drove him away too. After that he had a fit; and Mrs. Death sent a dog, to give him to understand, by howling at his door, that she was on her way, and John drove him away also. But he got ill for all that, and then he got worse, and then Mrs. Death knocked at the door, so John hobbled out of bed, and locked it and put up the bar; but Death contrived to creep in under the door.

"Mrs. Death!" said John, indignantly, "this isn't fair. You told me you wouldn't come so long as my house was not crumbling to pieces."

"Oh!" answered Death, "isn't your body your house--and hasn't that been crumbling to pieces? Didn't your strength fail first, and then your hair, and then your teeth, and then your limbs; haven't they all been crumbling away?"

"I certainly didn't understand you so!" answered John, dolefully, "and relying on your word, your coming now takes me by surprise."

"That is your fault, John," answered Death. "Men ought to be always prepared for my coming, and then I should never take them by surprise."

RAMON THE DISCONTENTED.

Ramon was a discontented man. Instead of thanking Providence for all the good gifts of earth, and the promise of the joys of heaven, he was always repining at the hardships of his life, and finding out one thing after another to grumble at. Work he specially objected to. He wanted a cottage, and a pig, and a stock of poultry, and a vine, and a wife, a smoking cazuela [32], and plenty of tobacco; but when it came to working to pay for them, then it was quite another story. He was an only son; his hard-working parents had spoilt him by letting him have his own way, supplying him with all he wanted out of their own earnings; and so he grew up idle and apathetic, finding fault with fate, instead of putting his shoulder to the wheel: "Estan las cosas en este mundo como cuernos en un costal--todas de punta" was a favourite proverb of his, meaning that the events of this life are like packing horns into a bag, the points of those first put in are always making their way through and obstructing the others. And indeed, if people indulge a discontented disposition, every thing must go wrong with them.

Strange, that any one can find pleasure in such an ugly habit as grumbling. Ramon had been made by nature a good-looking boy; but a sour, gloomy expression soon superseded the engaging smile of youth; and as he had never a pleasant word, his society was gradually shunned by all the village. The last to give him up was Carmen, the bright little playmate of his childhood, but he wore out even her patience, and then, when he was left to himself, he grew more and more sour and morose.

In the meantime, his good old father and mother had died, and for a time he had been living on the savings they had left him; but this was soon at an end, and hunger forced home the reflection, "What was to become of him?" Then every thing seemed gloomier than ever before even--he sat down to think under the old patriarchal vine, which had shaded his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him; but the fierce sun came through the withered branches and maddened him. He had neglected to tend it, and it had no shelter for him. Instead of blaming his own neglect, he turned with an imprecation upon the vine, and his ill-humour overflowed on to the old house, against the wall of which he leant and which was also crumbling to decay because he had left it without repair; and upon Carmen, whose patience he had wearied, and upon fortune, whose gifts he had left waste. And in his fury he said that he would die. "Die!" echoed a little leaf of the withered vine, as it fell rustling past him, "You can't die when you will, you must fulfil the work God has set you, whatever it be."

"Work! I will do no work. I will die!" he answered fiercely.

"You cannot die when you will!" whispered another rustling leaf.

"We shall see!" said Ramon; and with that he took up the rope of the well, and, stalking wildly upstairs, he deliberately made a noose, into which he inserted his throat, tied one end over a beam in the loft, and placed himself on an old chest, ready to jump off and so swing tight the fatal knot which was to end his days.

He shut his eyes, and took a desperate leap ... but ... instead of drawing the noose tight, the beam above broke in twain, and the two ends came with him to the ground. He had scarcely recovered from one surprise, when he had to encounter another. On each side of him a stream of golden coins came running through the broken ends of the hollowed beam. What a sight for a lazy, self-indulgent man! Ramon thought no more of hanging now. He untied the knot, gathered up the gold, and secured it in chests and hiding-places, and came down to enjoy himself once more in his old idle way.

He trod on a dry leaf of the old vine, as he passed through the garden, and it whispered,--

"What a chance for you, Ramon! Buy yourself a patch of land, and set to work like a man, and show Carmen you are worthy of her."

"Work! while I have gold enough to last for ever? Not I, indeed!"

"It won't last for ever, Ramon," rustled out another falling leaf.

But Ramon heeded not. Some of his treasure he spent rationally enough, I must say, in having the old cottage repaired, and the old vine tended; but the bulk he squandered in excesses, and in a few years was as badly off as ever.

Want once more stared him in the face, and once more he resolved to put an end to his existence.

"You are not fit to die!" said the patriarchal vine; but Ramon hastened away, he had not the courage to encounter the dreadful thought.

He snatched up a rusty, disused spade--he was out of conceit with hanging. This time he would dig a deep hole in the ground, and thrust himself in head foremost, and stifle himself that way.

Digging was hard work for arms so unused to labour, but he had never thought to find it so hard as it proved. He had not taken out a dozen spadefuls when the spade seemed to refuse to enter the ground any more. Had his arms grown so stiff they could not move? Or was the earth so hard he could not break it?

The evening breeze rustled by, bearing with it some leaves of the old vine; and as they passed they whispered,--

"You can't die when you will, Ramon! Only be content to work as hard as now in a good cause, and you won't want to die till your time comes."

Provoked into energy by what he considered a taunt, instead of being softened by the fatherly counsel, he made one more desperate thrust of the spade into the hole. Instead of entering deeper, its rusty pan broke short off, but with a sound which showed him it had struck against something made of metal; and putting his hand down to the place whence the sound came, he distinctly made out the shape of a copper vessel.

Here was a discovery which gave him a presentiment of another chance of good fortune. Partly with the broken spade and partly with his own hands, he succeeded in tearing up the soil around, and bringing to light a large jar heavy enough to be full of gold; and so it proved.

Thus provided with means, Ramon once more commenced a new lease of his dissipated life.

"Take my advice," said the old vine, "and put your treasure in something that will last, this time."

This was too much trouble for Ramon. He went on in his old reckless way, spending and taking no heed.

But during all the years of neglect, the brambles had overgrown his ground; and his uncultivated place afforded a cover for idlers and vagabonds. So it happened that when he was making one of his nightly visits to his treasure he was overlooked, and, as you may readily imagine, by the next occasion the treasure was gone.

His rage at this discovery was unbounded: he resolved now once for all to have done with life, and let nothing interfere to prevent him.

As he lay in bed that night, he contrived a plan to prevent all possibility of escape, and with the first rays of the morning sun he sallied out fully equipped.

He bore a rope and a blunderbuss, and he bent his steps to a crag which overhung the sea, where he had marked a tree whose branches spread over the briny waves. Tying his cord to a branch, he held his blunderbuss ready to blow out his brains if the noose was too slack, while, if the rope should break, he would at least have a good chance of drowning.

Off he leapt with the rope round his neck; but the noose did not draw itself tight. Faithful to his plan, he pulled the rusty trigger, but, like every thing else belonging to Ramon, the gun was out of order, and didn't go off; but as he hung struggling in the air the old well-rope broke, and down he fell splashing into the sea. There was no easy drowning for him, however; the water was not so deep as he had imagined, and he was left floundering in the waves, and bruised about among the sunken rocks.

Ramon had no fortitude; at each bump he could not restrain an exclamation of pain, and the distressful cries attracted the attention of no less a person than Carmen, who was gathering esparto grass [33] on the wild coast at no great distance.

All her former womanly compassion returned when she saw her poor Ramon in suffering and distress. Without an instant's hesitation, she caught up a hank of strong esparto rope, which she used to tie up her bundles, and hurried to the water's edge. Making one end of it fast to a rock, with the vigorous exertion of an arm strengthened by labour and directed by intelligence and affection, she contrived to throw the other end within reach of his grasp.

Ramon, who by this time had been long enough within sight of the terrors of death to feel his wish to encounter it considerably cooled, no sooner saw who was steadying the line, than he felt all the love of life which is implanted in the heart of man revive with its full vigour.

He caught the rope and twisted it round his arm, and with its aid breasted the breakers. By the time he reached the shore, however, the exhaustion consequent on so much excitement and exertion overcame him so completely, that every remaining spark of ill-will in Carmen's bosom was extinguished, and her only thought was how to restore him to strength.

Her exertions were blessed with success, and his weakness found scope for all her womanly sympathies, while her tender care roused all the better qualities of his nature into action. Her smile mingled with the visions of his feeble state, and warmed all his prospects of the future.

When he dreamt of the dreary old house and its haunting associations with the guilty past, he fancied he saw the sunny halo of her presence dispelling all its gloomy phantasms, and her playful innocence silencing even the convicting warnings of the stern old vine. Shared with her, even labour seemed to lose its repugnance.

As soon as he was well enough, he opened to her his resolutions full of repentance, which, with a woman's instinct, she was forward to foster.

You will be pleased to hear that after all these lessons, crowned by Carmen's winning confidence in his promised amendment, Ramon set himself seriously to follow a new line of conduct. Carmen showed her faith in his penitence by marrying him, and he took honest care that she should never repent her generosity.

The old cottage once more looked homely and inviting; and in the summer evening, when Ramon and Carmen sat resting beneath the shadow of the old vine, now sturdy and fruitful under the culture it received, and watching the gambols of a troop of chiquillos [34] whom God had given them, the leaves, as they fell rustling about them, whispered playfully in Ramon's ear, "You don't want to die now?" And Ramon in revenge plucked a bunch of ruddy grapes, and distributed it among the happy party.

THE BALLAD-MAKER AND THE BOOT-MAKER.

There was a minstrel who went travelling about the country from time to time singing sweet songs which people loved to hear. His music was not like the music of the Spanish people, for he came from the kingdom of Provence, and every one thronged to hear the strange sweet melody. And when he had passed on, and there was no one left to sing as he sang, people tried to remember his words and his tones, and to sing like him.

At one of the towns where he passed there was a boot-maker, who, as he sat all day alone at his last, diverted himself with singing; and as he had sung a good deal, he thought he could sing very well. He was much delighted with the minstrel's songs, caught up a good many of them, and never tired of singing them--after his fashion. But from being quite ignorant both of music and of the Provençal language, he made, as we should say, a great mess of it. Yet, as the people knew no more about it than himself, they were very well pleased to listen to him.

So, a long time after, when the Provençal minstrel came back that way, they would not admit him, but cried out, "We have one of our own people who sings your songs for us as well as you, and we need no Frenchman here."

Now the minstrel was one greatly devoted to his art, he did not merely sing for sordid gain; so instead of being angry because he was supplanted, he was really pleased to hear that the people in that far-off town had learnt the language and melody of his dear Provence; and he said he would hear the boot-maker himself.

Imagine how great was his annoyance and mortification, when he heard the beautiful ballads lamed and spoilt by the rude, unlearned attempts of the boot-maker!

"Is it possible," he said, "that this man has been deluding all the people into the idea that what he sings is like my songs? And how can I prevent his going on keeping them under this error?" Then he bethought him what to do. He went by night to the boot-maker's workshop, and putting all the wrong pieces of leather together, he sewed them up into all sorts of foolish, useless shapes.

When daylight returned, and the boot-maker came to his work, he was in a great fury at what was done, and began shouting to the neighbours to come and avenge him, for the Frenchman had spoilt all his work. Then they all came running helter-skelter to exercise summary justice on the minstrel.

But the minstrel stood up and confronted them, and said, "Good people! first hear me. This man is a maker of boots and I am a maker of ballads. True I have spoilt his boots, I do not deny it; but he first spoilt my ballads: what I have done is but fair. If you will hear us sing one after the other, you will yourselves give judgment in my favour." So the people told the boot-maker to stand up and sing, which he did in his clumsy droning way, with plenty of false notes and mispronunciations. After him the minstrel stood up and warbled his song in tones so soft and sweet, that the people wondered how they ever could have listened to the other, and with one voice they cried out, "The minstrel is right! The minstrel is right!"

Then the minstrel, who bore no malice, and had only acted out of love for his art, repaid the boot-maker amply for all the damage to his leather, but took a promise of him that he would never sing his songs again.

EL CLAVEL [35].

The carnation is the flower of predilection of the Andalusian peasant. His cottage does not seem like home without its scent; nor is the maiden's toilet complete without one of its glorious blossoms placed behind her ear, in the ebon setting of her massive hair-braids: it is the token of gladness in their festivals; of love, where coyly offered with a trembling hand. The people sing of its perfections and its meaning in a thousand little ditties.

Among all the trees of the wood
The laurel bears questionless sway.
What maid can compete with my Anna?
What flower, with carnations, I pray [36]?

They always speak of it, thus, as only next in order to female beauty, and the amorous swain is continually raising the comparison.

To January's biting frost
No carnation trusts its charms,
The tints that Heav'n thy cheeks has given,
Are dyed ingrain and fear no harms [37],

he sings; or perhaps,--

My carnation was raising a plaint,
I ask'd it to tell me its grief,
And it said that thy lips were so fair,
Of their charms it would e'en be the thief [38].

The one his fair has given him he declares binds him to her for ever.

The carnation which thou gav'st me,
On holy Thursday last,
Was no flower, but a fetter
To bind me to thee fast [39].

The one she nurtures he watches as a token of all that is dearest and most beautiful in her.

My maid has a fav'rite carnation
Which she watches both early and late;
I give it a kiss on its petals,
Whenever I pass by her gate [40].

And she in her turn guards her charge with a jealous eye.

A ruddy carnation have I,
But I keep it secure from the cold,
And I shade off the gaze of the sun,
Lest it tarnish, if he were too bold [41].

Such a carnation was once thus tended by a poor village girl: it had grown up and blossomed and put forth its deep, rich hues under her care, though she was so poor that she had nothing to grow it in but a broken olla [42]. Nevertheless when she thought of the happy day when it should become a love-token to one worthy of her, she took such care of it, covering it up when the sun was too hot, watering it with water from the purest spring, sheltering it from the wind, bringing it into her room to guard through the night, lest any evil should befall it, that never carnation flourished so gloriously; it was her only flower, the object of her whole care.

One day there came into the garden a maja [43] in her gala costume. According to the pretty Andalusian custom, she carried a bunch of bright, sparkling flowers twisted into her raven hair behind her left ear.

"Ah!" cried the handsome carnation from the depths of its broken olla, "why should it not be my lot to adorn the head of this lovely creature, instead of being abandoned to the care of a penniless peasant?"

The maja smiled, and passed round the garden two or three times, to see if the carnation persisted in his idea. Every time her black veil caught, as she passed, in the sharp edge of the broken pipkin, the carnation wafted a soft sigh,--

"Ah, why was I not born to adorn that shining hair?"

The maja deferred no longer to fulfil his wish: throwing the bunch of showy flowers on to the ground, she plucked the carnation and plaited it into her hair.

Right proud was the carnation to find himself thus grandly enthroned; far too proud to have a thought of compassion for the other flowers cast away for his sake; too triumphant even to smart under the puncture of the hair-pin which fixed him on the maja's head. Many a scornful glance he cast at the broken olla which had been his nursery, and the cot of the lowly child who had nurtured him.

Thus he was borne about, displaying his beautiful hues in the sun, and charming every one with his perfume all day. Then night came: the maja stood at her reja [44], looking out for her serenader. He came at last, and brought in his hand a beautiful white rose; the maja stretched out her hand to receive it with delight; with loud and joyous thanks she placed it on her head, flinging the hapless carnation from her without a thought.

Instead of blooming on his lordly stalk as at the first, the pride and pet of the peasant maid, he was soon trampled to atoms by a drove of pigs, passing on their way to market!

THE ILL-TEMPERED PRINCESS.

There was once a poor young knight, and he went out into the world, to seek adventures and do knightly deeds. As he went, he met a man standing in front of a long narrow tunnel in a rock, and blowing through it with his cheeks stretched like two ripe pomegranates, to whom the knight called out, "Halloa! fellow, what do you do there?"

And the man made reply, "Disturb me not, your worship, for with my breath I am turning five hundred and thirty-two mills."

So the knight asked, "Then who are you?"

And the man made answer, "I am Blowo, son of Blowon [45], the good blower."

Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"

And the man made answer, "Your worship is not readier to ask than I to accept, for I am tired enough of blowing." So he gave one more good strong blow, enough to set the mills twirling for a long time, and walked on behind the knight.

A little farther along they came upon a man toiling up the hill-side, with a load of a hundred and thirty-two hundred-weight upon his back.

To whom the knight called out, "Halloa! man, you carry more than a waggon with two yoke of oxen! Who are you?"

And the man made answer, "I am Porto, son of Porton, the strong porter."

Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"

And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask, than I to accept, for I am weary of this burden." So he laid the weight down by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.

A little farther on they came to a long stretch where the road was very straight, and by the side a man walked up and down twisting a rope, to whom the knight cried out,--

"Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and who are you?"

And the man made answer, "I am Ropo, son of Ropon, the cunning rope-maker, and I make ropes which none can break."

Then the knight said, "Will you come out with me to seek fortune?"

And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask than I to accept, for I am weary of twisting this rope." So he left there his rope by the road-side, and walked along behind the knight.

A little farther on they came upon a man crouched down by the way-side.

To whom the knight called out, "Halloa! fellow, what do you there? and who are you?"

And the man made answer, "I am Listeno, son of Listenon, the ready listener."

So the knight said, "What are you listening for?"

And the man made answer, "Blowo has left off turning the mills, and I am listening for the wind to come down from the mountains of Burgos."

"Fellow! the mountains of Burgos are a hundred leagues off."

"What does that signify, if my hearing reaches as far?"

Then the knight said, "Will you come along with me and seek fortune?"

And the man made answer, "Your worship is not more ready to ask than I to accept, for I am weary of straining my ears." So he set up three flags, that all the country might know the wind would be there in three days, and walked along behind the knight.

Then, after three days' journey, they came in sight of a magnificent castle, extending half a mile every way over the top of a mountain, but all desolate and in ruins; and the way up to it was overgrown with interlacing brambles and briars, so that they could hardly pass through. Then to increase their difficulty, a heavy storm came on, which would soon have wetted them through; but Blowo cried out,--

"Never fear, your worship; for I will soon clear the air."

So he blew a mighty blast, and sent all the big thunder-clouds travelling back to the Sierra; and they went on toiling up the brake.

When they came up to the castle, they found there was no door or opening, nor any way in. Porto, Ropo, Listeno, and Blowo wanted to give up the attempt, and pass on farther; but the knight would not hear of abandoning the adventure.

"If your worship is so determined," said Porto, "I'll open a way for you."

So he broke off a huge piece of rock as big as two men, and, standing a hundred yards off, he flung it against the wall, with a noise that could be heard a hundred miles off. The wall trembled and clattered; but it was held together by a stronger than human power, and all Porto's great strength could produce no effect on it.

"Let us go away from here, Master," pleaded Ropo, "this is no place for us. There is something wrong about this place; and the blessing of God is not here."

"No," replied the knight, "we will first learn all about it; there may be work for us."

So they continued walking round the walls to see where they might effect an entrance, and all to no purpose. By and by Listeno exclaimed, "I hear some one cry;" and they all listened, but could hear nothing. So Listeno made them follow him in the direction whence the sound proceeded till at last they were near enough for the others to hear the sound also; and they went on following it up, till they came to the mouth of a great well all grown over with climbing-plants; when they had cleared these away, the hole looked so black and deep, it seemed as if it went down to the centre of the earth, and up the shaft there came sounds of a woman's wailing, so loud and pitiful, they were all moved to pity, and anxious to run to the relief of the distressed person; but there was no means of telling how to reach the bottom. Then Ropo came forward, and said, "We will all go abroad, and gather five thousand bundles of esparto, and palmito [46] grass, and all five shall set to work to make a long rope; and with that we will reach the bottom."

So said, so done. They gathered five thousand bundles of esparto, and palmito grass, and they all five set to work under Ropo's directions and twisted away at the rope; and now and then they tied a fragment of rock to the end and let it down, to see if it reached the bottom. They went on thus for five years, and at last it splashed the water, and when they let it down again it sounded on the rock, and they found only a few feet of the rope was wet, for the water was not deep.

Then Listeno put his ear to the top and told them it was not standing water, but that a brook ran through, along the bottom of the cave. As they were twisting the rope, they talked away about the great deeds each would do; and each had a conjecture as to what they might find at the bottom of the well. They all thought they should find a treasure, and Porto said he would take it up on his shoulders and carry it home for them, though it should weigh as much as all the lead of the Sierra Almagrera [47].

But when the rope was finished, and it was a question of who should go down, not one of the knight's followers, though they had been boasting so loudly before, would venture down into the well. So the knight laughed, and said he was not afraid; and one end of the rope having been lashed tightly to a rock, the four followers undertook to pay it out steadily, and down the knight descended into the black, gloomy depth.

Day and night he went on steadily descending for three days and three nights, and at the end he came into the water. It was not more than breast high, so he waded through it for several yards till he came to a place where the bank widened sufficiently for him to get out and walk along it; and then he came to some trees, and through the trees was an open space lighted by a lurid light which came from a deeper cave. On a sloping bank, covered with shining grass and strange flowers, lay a beautiful princess all dressed in white, and decked with shining jewels; and as she lay, she moaned and cried and prayed for deliverance. So the knight was hastening towards her, and drew his sword to cut the bonds which confined her, but at that instant up started a fierce demon whom he had not observed before, as he lay coiled up at the mouth of the cave.

"Not so fast, fine caballero!" he cried, "for she is mine, and you will have to fight me before you can touch her." The knight disregarded the menace, and continued his way towards the princess, but the air was stiff all around him--though he could see no hindrance, he found he could not make any way towards her.

"Ha! ha!" roared the demon, "my fine caballero, you'll find you will have to do with me at last!"

"And who are you?" shouted the baffled knight, "and what is this beautiful princess to you?"

"I am bound to answer the knight who asks that question," answered the demon, "or it is little you would have learnt from me. Know, then, that this princess was the only daughter of King Euríc, to whom belonged all the country as far as eye can see; and she would have succeeded to his kingdom, but her temper was so violent, no one could bear with her. Upon the least contradiction she would order a subject to be executed; and her arbitrary conduct was continually involving the kingdom in discontent and trouble. Her father, who tenderly loved her, used to coax her and use every endeavour to soften her, but with no avail. At last, one day she provoked him so sore that in his anger he exclaimed, 'Go to the horned one!' When I heard myself called, I hastened to seize her, but, notwithstanding all my speed, before I could arrive he had revoked the curse, and so I was tricked out of her. This happened several times, but each time fatherly fondness was quicker than my utmost haste. At last, a day came when she excited him greatly, and he said again, 'Go to the horned one!' and before he could recall the words that time, he had fallen down a lifeless corpse. So now she is mine, and mine she must remain till some knight will win her in arms from me, and marry her, and restore her to her castle and her kingdom."

"That will I!" said the knight stoutly; for though he feared the lady's violent temper after what he had heard, his devotion to chivalry bound him to use his best endeavours to deliver her.

Accordingly he drew his sword, and called to the demon to come on. "Remember one thing," said the demon, "if you should win her, she is yours for ever; I take her back no more."

Meantime, Listeno, at the top of the well, had been reporting to his companions all that he heard going on below, and their curiosity getting the better of their fears, they let themselves down by the rope, and all four arrived in time to witness the terrible contest.

Never was such a fight seen in this world as that between this knight and the demon; and at last the knight cut off the demon's ear. No tongue could describe the demon's rage at finding his ear in possession of a mortal.

"Give me my ear!" he cried in tones so sharp that they almost stunned Listeno's sensitive hearing powers.

"Never," replied the knight, "or at least not without a heavy ransom. In the first place I exact that without further ado you reinstate the Princess in her castle and all her power." The demon stamped and raged, but the knight was firm. The demon was ashamed to go home without his ear, so he thought it best to comply.

The Princess was restored to her throne, the castle was restored to its strength, the garrison was restored to the ramparts, the servants were restored to the halls. The knight married the princess; great rejoicings and festivities were celebrated, and to his four followers were given places of trust and consequence in the palace.

The demon often came to beg for his ear, but the knight felt that at some time or other he might have need of him, so he would not lose his hold over him.

For a time all went well enough, but by little and little the Princess forgot her years of adversity and the debt she owed the knight: she grew more and more wilful, and before a year was out she had become so violent again, that he grew weary of his life, and declared he could no longer endure the continual turmoil. Remonstrance and coaxing were alike unheeded, and it was vain that he tried her father's remedy, for the demon had sworn never to take her back.

In this strait Porto reminded him of the ear he held in hostage, adding, "I will take it upon myself to deliver you of her." So putting the bottle of brine in which the ear was kept into his pocket, he swung the Princess over his shoulder, and all her struggling was useless against "the son of the strong porter."

Thus laden he went to find out the demon. "You are to take back this princess, she is only fit for your company," he said, when he had found him.

"Not I!" answered the demon, grinning: "I told your master when he would have her he must take her for good and all."

"Do you know this ear?" then asked Porto, showing him the bottle.

The demon clutched at it.

"Not so fast!" cried Porto. "If you want to have it back, this is my master's condition: you must take back the princess along with it."

So, crest-fallen and glad to get his ear back on any condition, the demon accepted the bargain as it was dictated to him; and the princess who could not command her temper never found another knight to deliver her.

THE HERMIT AND THE FIG-TREE.

There was an old man of Toledo who had one son, whom he brought up in the fear of God. Now it happened that this old man had to go to a distant town of Estramadura, to receive some money of a creditor, and the creditor dying, his heirs disputed the debt, and drove the old man to a lawsuit which kept him absent many years. When at last the suit was just decided in his favour, the old man fell ill and died. Meantime the son, growing uneasy at his father's prolonged absence, arranged his affairs as well as he could, and prepared to take the journey to see after him. Calling in his three clerks, Jacinto, Gonzalo, and Diego, who were all men whom his father trusted, and whom he therefore respected, he divided his property in three parts, and to each he gave charge of one part, leaving it to each to do the best he could for him, saying, "The wisdom of your grey hairs will do better for me than any instructions my inexperience could give you."

"If the Lord bless it, it shall increase; and if He curse it, it shall not prosper," answered Jacinto, the eldest; "behold I am nothing in the matter;" and he shook his venerable head, and raised his eyes to heaven.

"Whatever I have done for your father I will continue to do for you," said Gonzalo, the second in order, and hurried back to his papers as if it was wrong to waste a moment in talking.

"I will endeavour that you shall have nothing to complain of," quietly replied Diego, the third.

The young man was pleased with what they said, and without further loss of time set out on his journey.

The weather was fair, and his father's friends by the way received him hospitably; but crossing the Sierra [48], a violent storm came on, and he would soon have been drenched with rain. Right glad he was to see, perched on the mountain-ledge, a hermit's cell, where he readily found shelter. In the morning, when the sky was serene again, he rose to take his leave; and as he stood on the threshold thanking the hermit for his care of him, he could not forbear pausing to admire the beauties around him. Far away stretched the plains below, studded with smiling cities and watered by the mazy windings of the rivers, and shaded by dark groves of ancient cork-trees; behind him were rocky heights reaching to the sky, presenting every degree of rich vegetation and solemn barrenness. But what attracted his sight most of all was a luxuriant plantation of fig-trees, which made a complete bower of the hermit's cell.

"How successful you are with your fig-trees!" said the traveller; "I never saw so fine a show. You have three, one as fine as the other--it is impossible to say which of them is most flourishing; and to judge by the fruit you gave me, which doubtless is their produce, they are the finest trees in Spain, and that is saying a great deal. I must add too, after your liberality with them, that you put to shame the proverb,--

"En tiempo de higos
No hay amigos [49]."

"For what you say of the proverb, son," replied the hermit, "I have no merit, for it is the very essence of my rule of life to call nothing my own, according to our Lord's counsel. These figs are the gift of God, to me, or to you, or to whomsoever is here to need them. But for the rest, you judge according to the measure of the inconsiderateness of your years. Nevertheless, you seem to me a good youth, and I will therefore show you something which may be of use to you in your dealings with the world. Know then that but one of these fig-trees is really what it seems; the other two are worthless. That is, worthless," he added, "as bearers of fruit, for there is nothing that God makes but has its worth, and even these trees which bear no fruit are useful to give shade, and for other purposes besides."

"You surprise me," said the young man; "I never saw trees of more equal promise!"

"Nevertheless, it is as I say; and if the season of figs were not just over, according to our Lord's saying, by their fruit you should know them, or, as you say in the world, "al freir, lo vereis [50]." Meantime, learn, my son, not to judge of men and things by their appearance, but wait and see what their fruit is like."

The sun was now beginning to make way above the horizon, and, fearing to be overtaken by the heat, the young man was obliged to set out on his journey without further parley than promising to visit the hermit on his return.

Great was his grief, when he arrived at the end of his journey, to find his good father had been so suddenly called away, and instead of being clasped to his bosom, to find the last earthly communication he could ever receive from him was a scrap of paper, on which, at intervals of his death agony, he had convulsively written down a few directions to guide him in entering into possession of his worldly goods, mingled with counsels to him to continue to direct all his dealings according to the fear of God.

This sudden death had thrown matters into some confusion, and it took a considerable time to set all straight again; it was some ten or eleven months before the young merchant had to re-cross the Sierra in a homeward direction.