Chapter IV: The Whale of the Manzanáres (1)

A modern Spanish writer gives the following solution of a popular tradition that a whale was once seen making its way up the Manzanáres. The Manzanáres is a singularly shallow river, at certain times of the year not half covering its bed, which rendered the tradition still more marvellous [75].

The solution is this: "A wine-merchant living on its banks was once unfortunate enough to have an accident in his storehouse or cellar, by which a number of wine-skins were sent floating down the stream. The wine-merchant ran along the bank, calling on the neighbours to arrest the float, the rather that one of the skins was full of wine; and as the danger of losing them increased, he went on crying frantically, "Una va llena!" ("One of them is full!")

Now Spaniards make but a scarcely perceptible difference between the sound of b and v, so that his cry sounded in the people's ears like una ballena, which would have meant a whale!

THE SUN OF WITTENBURG.

Among the engagements fought by the Duke of Alva in the Low Countries, no victory was more hotly contested and more hardly won than the battle of Wittenburg, in 1548. Some who were present at it, when they came back to Spain, magnified, as old soldiers are wont, the wonders of the day; and among other extravagant exaggerations, it was reported that the sun had stood still to give the victorious Spaniards time to pursue their enemies.

When the Duke of Alva returned, Charles Quint inquired of him his account of the event. The Duke, who did not wish either to compromise his veracity or diminish the honours of the day, replied, "Sire, I had too much occupation on earth for my thoughts to have leisure to observe what took place in the heavens."

MERINO.

You have often had to wear a merino frock and merino socks, I dare say; but perhaps you do not know that the fine soft wool of which these are made comes from Spain. It is more interesting to know that there is a tradition which says that the particular breed of sheep from which this wool is taken, came originally from England; their coats improved greatly in quality under the genial climate of Spain, and some people have supposed that the name merino is a corruption of trans marino, because they came from over the sea. Others derive it from the word Merino, an old title in use in the kingdom of Leon, meaning an overseer, and think that the sheep, having on their first arrival been given into the care of a Merino, or overseer, the name continued to be applied to the animals after it had ceased to denote the office.

Others, again, derive it from the word merino, which denotes the migration to which these sheep are subjected; for in the hot weather, when the grass of the lowlands gets withered up, they have to be driven into the mountain pastures.

There is some doubt as to the date of the importation of the sheep; but most probably they were taken as part of the dowry of Catherine, daughter of John of Gaunt, when she went to marry Don Enrique III., King of Leon and Castille.

KING VAMBA.

During the time that the Goths governed Spain, there was once an interregnum. The stock of the last dynasty was extinct, and every one who could collect a few supporters set himself up to rule over the rest, so that there were several calling themselves kings at once, and fighting with each other for the mastery. Of course this led to the greatest confusion, for there was no one to keep order.

At last, as they found they could not agree among themselves, they sent to Rome to ask the Pope to decide for them. So the Pope went into his oratory, and prayed God to tell him which of all the candidates should be King of Spain. But when he came out again to the envoys, he told them that none of the pretenders were worthy to wear the crown; that he who was to be King of Spain would be found ploughing his land with a grey and white ox, and a priest walking by his side; that he would be found somewhere in Andalusia, and that his name would be Vamba.

The envoys came back to Spain in no very cheerful mood; for they said, "How shall we find this man?" And then they searched Andalusia over, and could find no one whose name was Vamba. Just as they were going to give up the search in despair, as they were passing through a bank planted with canes they heard a woman with a basket on her shoulder call out, "Come and dine, Vamba! You seem to forget it is twelve o'clock!"

When the envoys heard that, they turned round again, and saw a man ploughing in a field with a grey and white ox. So they went back, and threw themselves on their knees before him, and spoke in this manner,

"Give us your hands to kiss, your majesty!"

But Vamba, full of astonishment, and at a loss to understand them, thought they must want to kill him; and exclaimed, trembling, "Spare my life, Señores! Why do you seek to take it?"

But they answered, "We have no such thought, Vamba. Far from it. The Pope who now reigns in Rome told us that you were to be our king; and our king you must therefore be."

But Vamba, who could not believe they were serious, stuck the vara [76] he held in his hand for a goad, into the ground; and said, laughing, "When my vara shall take root, and bring forth flowers, then will I believe that I am King of Spain!"

Then, behold! before he had finished speaking, the vara became covered with leaves, and from its branches sprang beautiful flowers.

When Vamba saw that, he hesitated no longer; but called his wife Sancha, and his children, and went along with the envoys to Toledo, which was the capital of the kingdom of the Goths.

The envoys sent messengers on before, to tell the Council of the kingdom that the king was coming. The Council rose in a body, and went out to meet him; and all the people followed behind, and the joy-bells were set ringing.

Thus King Vamba made his entrance by the Gate of Cambron, the noblest gate adorning great Toledo; but when he saw the Alcaide of his palace bearing the sword before him according to custom, he begged, in his humility, that he would not bear a sword, but that his children might go before him to show that he loved peace and love, rather than war and strife; and so he went on into the city.

And all the people looked out of their balconies, and cried,--

"Toledo and Spain for Vamba!
And also for Queen Sancha!"

But as the cry swept over the bosom of old father Tagus, the golden Tagus who reflects the glories of all Spain, he bore the cry along gladly and soft, but yet inverting the order,--

"All Spain hails thee first,
And then her chief city Toledo!"

Thus they conducted the good king to the palace, and there they led him to the bath; and then they trimmed his red melena [77], and arranged it so that it might not fall into his eyes; and they combed out the hair of his beard, but left it long and noble; and they put on him a royal robe with gold embroidery and an ermine collar, though he would have it sober in colour, and on his breast a blood-red cross.

Queen Sancha, too, they arrayed in a robe of green velvet, with gold and jewels round the border, her beautiful golden hair unbound, falling loose over her shoulders and reaching down to her palfrey.

The ladies went before, and strewed the ground with flowers, and filled the air with benedictions.

And thus they went forth to the cathedral to be crowned. And all the people ran to their balconies as they passed along, and cried,--

"Toledo and Spain for Vamba!
And also for Queen Sancha!"

But as the cry swept over the bosom of old father Tagus, the golden Tagus, who reflects the glories of all Spain, he bore the cry along, gladly and soft, but inverting the order,--

"All Spain hails thee first!
And then her chief city Toledo!"

Like King David, taken from the sheep-fold to be ruler of the people, Vamba made a very good king. His reign is spoken of in history as "the era of wisdom and justice." He had not, like later sovereigns of Spain, to fight the Saracen intruder on his own soil; but he did more, he crossed the sea to check his advancing power on the African coast, and returned towing two hundred and seventy vessels which his prowess had taken from the enemy. If equal determination had been shown in succeeding reigns, the Moslem had never obtained a footing on Christian soil.

Nevertheless, though respected and beloved by his subjects, Vamba was destined not long to enjoy the peace he so ardently loved. The ambitious men who had been contending for the crown before his accession, continued unyielding and restless. Pretenders rose up in Navarre and the Asturias, and Ilderic, Count of Nimes, at the same time set up the standard of revolt in the Gaulish provinces. Vamba marched in person against Navarre, and sent Paulo his general to Nimes. But Paulo, instead of going to chastise the rebel, procured, on his own behalf, the assistance of Remismundo, Duke of Cantabria, and proclaimed himself king. Vamba, though he had been made king without his own seeking, determined that the sceptre entrusted to him should lose none of its authority by his remissness, and had no sooner restored peace within the kingdom, than he set out against the more distant insurgents, whom he soon reduced to obedience also. Paulo was taken prisoner at Narbonne, together with the bulk of his adherents; at the intercession of the Archbishop they were all pardoned, except Paulo himself, who was found hidden in a cave.

When brought before him, Vamba said to him, "I conjure you now before God to tell me, have you any complaint against me, have I ever done any thing to justify your revolt?"

"Since you ask me in God's Name," replied Paulo, "I cannot but speak the truth. And I must therefore say, that never have I received evil at your hands, but on the contrary signal favours. I was always highly honoured by you, and it was the devil who led me astray."

Then the king forgave him the penalty of death, but he had his eyes put out, and took him captive to Toledo with a rope round his neck.

You might think that Vamba would have had peace, now that he had subdued all his enemies, but it was not so; another noble, Erviga, rose up against him and usurped his authority. By this time Vamba was old and worn down with care. Sancha was dead, and his race seemed well-nigh run. Erviga, though unjust in seeking to take the crown by force, was a brave leader and had the qualities necessary for a good ruler, therefore the good Vamba, instead of spending the blood of his subjects in fighting for a position which he had so little strength left to maintain, settled the question by retiring into a monastery and recommending the people to accept the rule of Erviga.

DOÑA TEREA.

Alfonso the Fifth of Leon was but an infant when his father's death laid on him the charge of resisting the advance of the Moslem, which was the inheritance of all Spanish sovereigns for so many centuries. His mother, Elvira, ruled the kingdom during his minority with great prudence and courage, defeated the Infidels in several encounters, and cultivated in her son all the qualities of a great sovereign. So well did her instructions prosper, that at the age of fifteen he was called to reign in his own name; and from the seclusion of a convent, whither she retired when the country no longer required her, his mother had frequent occasion to return thanks to heaven for the noble qualities her boy exhibited. For many years he continued the pride of the nation and the dread of its enemies; prosperity blessed the people at home, and their borders were continually enlarged by the success of his arms.

Success, though pleasant, is not always good. Alfonso, under its influence, at one time grew heedless of the dictates of his religion. On one occasion, being about to conclude a treaty of peace with Andalla, the Moorish king of Toledo, that prince asked the hand of his sister, Doña Terea, as one of the conditions of the treaty. The king's counsellors were struck with horror, at the thought of handing over a Christian maiden to an Infidel husband, the people expressed their indignation aloud, and Doña Terea herself implored piteously to be spared.

As I have said, success had spoiled Alfonso's nature; he was so accustomed to succeed in every thing, that he could not bear to be crossed even by righteous counsel. It seemed something fine to do what every one else was afraid of; he would not show himself so weak, not he. He would give his sister to the Moorish king in spite of them all, and show them he was superior to their prejudices. Besides, he further justified it to himself, because Andalla undertook on this condition to help him in his campaign against the other Moorish kings; forgetting that we must never do a wrong action for the sake of any advantageous result we may fancy it will bring.

Doña Terea, on the other hand, felt the full misery of her situation. No specious arguments blinded her. She felt it both wrong and repugnant; and besides, there was many a gallant, handsome knight ready to risk his life to win her love, and on whom she might have bestowed it in joy to herself and without violence to her conscience. Too young to have fixed her choice, she still had her secret preference dearly nursed, but not yet acknowledged so as to give the object of it the right to stand forth as her defender.

Now, a blight was over all her hopes; her bridal day, instead of an occasion of hope and gladness, was to be a day of desolation and despair. The prelates and great men of the kingdom offered themselves willingly to represent her grief to the king; but they could not move him, and when he sent the envoy who was to conduct her to Toledo, she was found in an agony on her knees, imploring deliverance from on High. Even this, however, did not move the king's heart; and poor Doña Terea was dragged off, more dead than alive, to be the Moor's bride.

Her beautiful golden hair--a romance of the time particularly records the tint--hung untended over her shoulders; the colour had fled from her tear-worn cheeks, and the expression from her dark-glancing eyes; for it seemed as if God, on whom she called so passionately to deliver her, had forsaken her in her hour of need.

And thus she was brought to Andalla, King of Toledo, who was too much pleased to have a beautiful Christian maiden for his bride to listen to her appeal to his magnanimity to release her. But when she found that all her gentle supplications were of no avail, she seemed suddenly inspired with a fire of queenly indignation; and, assuming a commanding attitude, she said solemnly, "Moor, of another law far removed from mine, know that I desire not to be united with thee, and thy presence is a burden to me; but if thou art sacrilegiously determined to marry me against my will, know that we Christians each at our baptism have a guardian angel given to us, to defend us from the power of evil; and so sure as thou respectest not the difference there is between thy belief and mine, that guardian spirit shall vindicate me and smite thee with his two-edged sword."

But Andalla only thought this exhibition of indignation made her look prettier; and laughing at the threatened visitation, persisted in making her his wife. His neighbours counted him singularly lucky in the possession of such a prize; and he thought himself happy indeed. Nevertheless, from the day of his marriage, a strange illness had assailed him. Though still in the prime of manhood, an unaccountable weakness overtook him; first his sight failed, and then his hearing, then his taste, then his strength; and all the clever physicians of the Moorish dominions failed, not only to give him any relief, but even to guess at the cause of the malady.

Driven thus to think within himself, he recalled the solemn warning of Doña Terea, and fear overtook him that her words were coming true. The moment he realized his danger, he sent for her and asked her if she still wished to return to her own country; to which she of course replied, that it was what she must always most desire. So he summoned the most honourable men of his kingdom, and gave Doña Terea in charge to them, and sent them to convey her back to her own country; and, moreover, put in their hands priceless presents of gold and precious stones, to make amends in the best way in his power, and also to testify that he did it to satisfy the scruples of the princess, and not out of any disrespect to the Christian king, of whose religion he now stood in great fear.

And Alfonso the Fifth, what became of him? Had he heard the Moorish king's embassage, he too might have been brought to the knowledge of his error, and to repentance; but when it arrived at the capital of Leon, he was already gone out on an expedition in which, by his unholy alliance, the infidel forces were mingled with his own. In high spirits, they marched along, crossing the Douro, fearing no opposition, for the Moorish population was at the time divided by many internecine feuds, and were hence precluded from assembling against him in any large numbers. Thus he came to Viseo, a strong place defended by a considerable garrison. Alfonso determined to lay siege to it. The army was accordingly encamped before it, and wise measures for its reduction promulgated, for Alfonso was a skilful general. Never doubting of his luck, however, he neglected those precautions which would have suggested themselves to a less successful man. The weather was sultry, and the heavy armour irksome. Alfonso, unused to restraint, heedlessly cast his cuirass aside, yet, with his accustomed bravery, showed himself under the walls as before, too self-confident to listen to counsel.

A sharp-eyed Moor upon the battlements detected the advantage he had given to his enemies, and letting fly a poisoned arrow aimed with the nice precision which the greatness of the venture inspired, gave him a mortal wound.

Thus he was cut down in early manhood, and the care of the kingdom once more left in the hands of an infant.

But Doña Terea reached home in peace; and passed the rest of her days praying for the brother who had so sadly wronged her, in the Convent of Las Huelgas--one of the present architectural glories of Spain.

THE IRISH PRINCESS [78].

I was born in Venice the renowned. When I had completed my twenty Aprils, my father called me to him one day, and said to me, "Dear son, I have overflowing wealth of possessions, and in silver and gold twenty thousand doubloons fully told; you are my only heir, and I am infirm and stricken in years. I am thinking of selling the good ship, that even now lies anchored in port."

To which I replied, "Father and lord, observe, the possessions, silver and gold, may all in an instant be reduced to nothing. But freight the good ship now with rich merchandise and wares which shall profit in exchange."

A few days after this, I sailed forth in the good ship, well freighted with precious stores; her linen sails filled out with the soft wind, and her keel ploughing the berdinegros [79] waters of the crystal main.

Thus to Tunis we came, where my affairs succeeded prosperously. My merchandise was all disposed of to great advantage in a short time, and before leaving the port I wandered forth to see the town. Passing by one of the great public squares, I saw some Turkish sentinels walking up and down, guarding a dead body; I addressed them, asking why they did not inter it.

"Because," said they, "he was of the Christian people, and in his days of life traded with his ship, wherefore a Turk of great consideration in our city, and a friend of his, entrusted to him a thousand ducats in silver, with which he bought great provision of cloth, and sent his servants to trade with it, while he remained in Tunis. The ship left the port with a prosperous wind, but before four days were out, a balandra [80] came in, bearing the news that the ship had been overtaken by a tempest, and all the merchandise had gone down into the boiling deep. With that the Christian merchant was so overcome, that he fainted and fell down dead, and we hold his body in bail for the thousand ducats he owed the Turk."

To which I replied, "I will pay the sum you have named." And then, taking the body on my shoulders, I carried it to the church of Serafic Francis, which there is in Tunis, to give it burial, and paid the stipend of the priest who should say a hundred masses for the soul's rest. Then I returned to pay the debt to the Turk.

Scarcely had I passed the threshold of his house, when I heard the sound of great wailing and lamentation, as of one taking leave of life.

So I turned and asked two turbaned renegades who stood in waiting, what meant the wail. And they said, "There came to Tunis a female slave, a captive Christian, causing envy to all the womanhood of this place, so beauteously had Heaven arrayed her. Her our master bought, with the intention of making her recant and marrying her. But she said to him, 'Señor, it is vain you weary yourself, to persuade me to do this thing, for never will I deny my God and His laws, though to lay down my life I am ready.'

"When the master heard this he was wroth, and taking her by the shoulders let her down into a mazmorra [81] under his house, binding her with a heavy chain, and feeding her day by day with but six ounces of coarse bread and half a pint of water."

Hearing that, I said I would buy the maid, and redeem her; but they answered it was vain. The Turk would not part with her to any one, and in mockery he had set her price at a hundred millions. So I saw I must have recourse to stratagem, and asked accordingly whether the maid had declared herself a Christian, and they answered, "No, she had only spoken of her God and of His law," then, while I bethought me how to arrange my plan, they exclaimed suddenly, "Here comes the master;" and the moment that he entered the house, eagerly prostrating themselves at his feet, they said:--

"Great lord of this mighty alcázar [82], behold a man who comes to pay the debt of the dead Christian, and who is also desirous to buy the maiden, the slave."

Nor was I sorry to find myself thus launched into the middle of the business, but I stood perplexed, praying in my own mind that God would give me some well-conceived idea which should serve for the redemption of the maiden.

Meantime, I counted out the sum that was due from the dead man; and then I said, "Know you that this Mustafa, my sister, whom you keep in your mazmorra, feeding her with the bread of affliction, is the most pious Jewess of our nation, and that in this you do a great wrong?"

I could proceed no further, for the Moors think it a terrible discredit to have any Jew within their precincts; and this one flew into an ungovernable rage at the bare idea that he had been harbouring one; plucking out his beard by handfuls, he cried out with a loud voice of desolation,--

"Woe is me, for my fame and my honour before my people is gone, now that I have suffered this scum of the earth to be with me! Let her be thrust forth from my gates."

So his servants ran and took her up, more dead than alive, and putting her into my arms drove us forth with ignominy and imprecations.

I was no sooner in the street, than I gave great thanks to God for the rescue He had provided, and then I bore her along to the church, thinking she needed the rites of sepulture; but I had scarcely entered the sacred place, than she opened her eyes and breathed. So I gave her such means of refreshment as I had about me, and by degrees the sad lady came to herself; and to give her greater consolation, I bid her observe she was no longer in the estate of a slave, but that by the mercy of Heaven she was redeemed and free.

As soon as her strength had begun to return, I deemed it prudent to run no risk of danger from the Turk, and therefore used every possible diligence to conduct her to the harbour, where at once we went down into my good ship, and giving the crew word to get to sea with all despatch, we were soon steering swiftly between two azure fields.

Thus we came to Venice, my country, where I found that during my absence my dear old father had died; and I should well-nigh have died of sorrow too, but that I had the charge of the beautiful captive lady upon me, and I had to provide for her welfare.

One day I took her aside, and asked her respectfully to tell me what country she was of, and who were her people; but she shook her head in a melancholy way, and bid me ask her nothing, but that with time I should learn all her eventful history. For she came from a far country, and she was not bold enough to propose to me the travail and peril of bearing her home.

"But," I replied, "most beauteous Diana, I asked the question that in the end I might have become thy beloved husband, and if I am not worthy to know thy country, what shall become of my hope."

And she--"From this day I will be thy beloved wife, for it is thus meet that love should be paid with love."

When I heard this answer, I was beside myself with joy, and instantly arranged every thing for the marriage festival, which was celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing, cañas [83] and alcancías [84], music, jousts, and dancing. Among the people who collected from all parts to enjoy the sports, was the captain of one of the ships in port, and he fastened himself on to me with every exterior token of friendship: I too was taken with him, and we were soon inseparable. Nothing would satisfy him, but that one fair bright morning when our fêtes were over, we should come down to this vessel that he might give us a banquet there.

After this there was dancing, and singing, and much merry-making; and while we were enchanted with the dulcet tones of the marvellous instruments his minstrels played, we failed to perceive we were being carried out to sea.

It was about six in the evening when my beloved bride came and took me by the hand, and said, "Without doubt there is some perfidy, for my heart is filled with fear, and my soul is troubled."

So I took her hand, thinking to reassure her by taking her on shore. But when we came upon the deck, there was nothing to be seen all around but sea and sky, and sea and sky.

My bride, when she saw that, fell into my arms in a swoon; and the cruel captain and half-a-dozen of his men urged by his command, fell upon me, and tore her from me, and cast me into the sea.

"O Holy Virgin of Carmel," I cried, "and thou S. Anthony of Padua, and Santa Barbara the glorious, and thou my guardian angel, pray for me now, that I perish not in this dire distress!"

As I uttered this petition, I felt a plank of wood strike against my breast; and on it I skimmed the waters all night, and by the first streak of dawn merciful Heaven commanded the waves to throw me upon a soft sandy shore. I could not refrain from kissing the ground which brought me safety; and as I rose up again, I beheld a holy hermit coming towards me, who led me to a little hut, where every day he brought me a basket of sufficient food.

At the end of six months, the hermit came to me very early one morning, and bid me go stand upon the shore, for there a vessel awaited me in which my passage-money was paid.

At the shore I found the vessel, and embarked as the hermit had directed me, not knowing whither we were bound.

At last, after six months' sailing, we came opposite the coast of Ireland, and as we drew near shore, "Friends," said the captain, "it is necessary that this letter and this folded paper be taken to the illustrious King of Ireland; which of you will undertake the charge?"

The crew answered, "Señor, let the Venetian take them."

And I, having no aim before me, cheerfully undertook the commission; and springing on shore, went straight to the royal palace, where I found myself in presence of Cæsar's majesty, into whose august hands I delivered the folded paper.

This having opened, he read aloud these words:--"Illustrious Lord! most powerful King of Ireland, the bearer of this letter is a physician of great renown; the sickness of thy daughter, which none can cure, shall flee away at the very sight of him."

Then I was troubled, and would have explained to the King how I was no physician, and the way in which the lot had fallen upon me to bring the letter, which might equally have fallen on the most ignorant sea-boy aboard; and in truth I knew no more of medicaments than the lowest sea-boy of them all.

But the King was overjoyed at the prospect of the healing of his daughter, and would listen to no explanations. And in proportion as he manifested his joy, my dismay increased, for I feared his anger when the undeception came.

Meantime, at his command, I was ushered into a vast hall, where were assembled a thousand lords. But, gentle reader, you will well believe me, it was not upon one of them I looked, for at first entering my eye lighted upon a casket covered with emeralds and brilliants which I had given to my beloved bride on the day of our espousals.

I threw myself upon it, crying, "Beautiful Isabela! Ah! where art thou? Where art thou mourning over my grief, as I mourn over thine?"

She, who lay sunk down in the depths of her white couch, at hearing these words darted up from it, and flinging her arms round me, embraced me.

I knew her as our lips met; and full of a thousand joys, we sat talking over the past, forgetful of all present.

And first, I asked what had become of the wicked captain.

"Oh, he!" she said, "when I told my father what he had done, he sent and had him put to death.

"And now," she continued, "did I not tell you that time would reveal to you all about my history? For now that you have seen who and where I am, there is little left to tell. While I was yet little more than a child, my father would have married me against my inclination to a prince of Scotland; and I, knowing his intention, went out from the palace in the night, disguised, upon a swift mare, and when I had ridden a long way, I came to the sea-coast. I found a ship into which, thoughtless child, I sought refuge, only caring to get away from the prince of Scotland.

"But they were corsairs who manned the vessel; and they carried me off with them to Tunis, where you found me, and set me free from that terrible suffering."

While we were talking, the king came up; and as I was yet musing on the marvellous direction of Providence, by which the lot had fallen on me, rather than another, to come on the embassage to the palace, without which I had been like never again to have met my bride, it fell into my mind that I had yet the letter to give to his Majesty, which having reached to him, he read thus aloud:--

"That I rest in holy ground, my soul at peace, is due to thee; therefore, when the perfidious captain threw thee into the deep sea, I was there; I provided the plank which carried thee to shore; I was the hermit that received and nourished thee; I was captain of the ship that brought thee to Ireland. And now live long with thy good spouse, and rest after many misfortunes, even as I rest in the eternal habitations."

Then I knew that it was the soul of him I buried at Tunis that had thus befriended me.

Not very long after this the king died, and all the people acclaimed me as their sovereign, where I have been reigning ever since, full of happiness and glory.

EL CONDE FERNAN GONZALEZ.

Conde Fernan Gonzalez was a bold lance. Restless as brave; when not engaged in chasing the Moors, he kept his appetite for noble exploits whetted with the dangers of the chase.

One day, the furious course of a wild boar, and his own impetuosity in the pursuit, led him far away from his companions, and the hills and leafy oaks of Lara soon hid him from sight. On went the boar, and on went the Conde after him, till, in the thickest of the forest, the brute took refuge in a hermit's cell long deserted and forgotten, and overgrown with ivy. The trees grew so close round the spot, that the horse could not go through for the low interlacing branches, so Gonzalez dismounted, taking his sword in his hand, and wrapping his cloak round his arm by way of shield [85]. Cutting his way through to the low doorway, he found the boar lying panting at the foot of a little altar which was there.

The good Count would not hurt the animal under such circumstances, so he put up his sword into the sheath, and, before he turned to go, knelt to offer up a prayer upon the sacred spot.

Suddenly, as he knelt, there appeared before him a vision of the former inhabitant of the place. He was a venerable man, dressed in white, with bald head and a long grey beard, his feet were bare and he leant upon a crook.

"Good Conde Fernan Gonzales," he said, "Behold, the King Almanzor [86] is even now preparing to come out to meet thee. Now, go out and give him battle, and be of good heart; for though thou shalt be badly wounded, and the infidels shall spill much of thy blood, yet shall a hundred of them fall for one of thine. God guard thee, Conde, and that which thou shalt do this day shall resound throughout all Spain. But this sign must come to pass first; and when it is fulfilled do not lose courage, for all that are with thee shall be stricken with fear and ready to flee away; but only stand thou fast, and the day shall be given thee. After that shall come days of peace; and a good wife shall be given thee, who shall be called Sancha. And now return to Lara, for thy people are seeking thee with fear and anxiety; and when these things come to pass, remember the hermit who foretold them."

Then, without answering him a word, the good Count rose from his knees, and, mounting his horse, rode back to Lara. There he found his people, all running hither and thither in search of him. But he, without telling them what had befallen, ranged them in order of battle, and went out to meet King Almanzor.

Thus they went their way, and sure enough they were none too soon; for even as the hermit had said, King Almanzor was on his way to meet him.

When the followers of Gonzalez saw the host that was marching towards them, they were stricken with fear, for they were but a handful. But Gonzalez, seeing their disorder, turned and said to them, "It is a shame, noble Castilian knights, to flee at sight of an infidel host; for who is there that can stand against our banner and our arms? At them! my friends, at them! Let there be not one of us wanting!"

With that he set spurs to his charger, and rode into the midst of the Moors; and he did so valiantly, that all his followers dashed into them with like impetuosity, and none could stand before them; and for one of them that was slain, a hundred of the infidels lay stretched upon the ground. But the good Conde was wounded, and his blood was poured out upon the ground; yet they pushed their way into the camp, where they found much precious spoil.

And when they divided the treasure, Gonzalez remembered the hermit, and set aside a portion of his share; and with it he built the church of San Pedro de Arlanza.

THE FIRST TUNNY FISHING.

There was once a fisherman named Pepe; he was very good, and very poor. He never went out to fish without first kneeling down and asking a blessing on his labours; he never lost his time in drinking-bouts; he brought his children up to be as honest and industrious as himself; yet nothing prospered with him. He toiled the livelong day, and often far into the night, yet he could scarcely earn enough to keep his family above want. If ever there was a storm, it was sure to be Pepe's boat that would be swamped. And if ever there was a rich shoal of fish came within his ordinary fishing-ground, it would be sure to happen when he was ill, or his gear was out of order, or when, for some reason, he could not avail himself of the blessing.

What was most remarkable was, that under all this misfortune Pepe was always cheerful. As the beautiful Spanish proverb says, he was like the sandal-wood, perfuming the axe which strikes it low [87]. He not only never complained, and continued at his toil steadily day by day, but he was always praising God for what He had given him--his wife, his children, his humble hut, his strong arms. "Put your trust in God, and your feet diligently along the road [88];" so he used to say, and so he used to act.

One day he had gone out as usual, and, as often happened, had taken nothing. It was no use going back with an empty bag; he persevered another day, and another, though he had nothing but a loaf to live on. The sun above was like a furnace, the sea below like a lake of fire. Pepe crept under the shadow of his sails, and was so exhausted with heat and hunger that he fell into a swoon.

He saw himself lying at the bottom of his boat, but not alone. There was One lying there also, who slept too. His raiment glistened, and a light of glory surrounded Him, which paled that of the blazing sun. By and by the sun went down, and it seemed that night came on, but He was still there; and the wind rose, and Pepe's little boat was tossed and buffeted, and Pepe was ready to cry out with alarm. Then he thought, "While He is here, no harm can come; I will keep His slumber sacred." So he looked out on the fury of the storm, and waited. Then that shining One arose and waved His hands abroad towards the winds, and there came a sweet melody from His mouth, which said, "Peace! peace!" Then suddenly all was still and bright again, and the soft breeze echoed back the music of "Peace! peace!" Then Pepe, when he saw what He had done, fell on his knees before Him, and said, "Lord, as Thou hast done this, send me now a draft of fishes, that my net may be full." Then the Bright One stretched out His hands over the sea; and there rose out of the rippling waves great handsome fishes such as Pepe had never seen the like. They were of the height of a man in length, and their skin shone like silver interwoven with many colours, and their fins of gold. Docile at His gesture, they rose gently over the side of the boat, and laid them obedient at His feet. One by one, on they came till--appalling sight!--the boat began to sink under their priceless weight.

For one moment Pepe's heart almost fainted within him at seeing the rich prize sink away again just as it was within grasp, and with it his boat, his tackle, all that he had to call his own! But his eye rested on the Bright One who stood there, and his faith and confidence returned. He observed that some folds of His glistening mantle, as it hung loosely from His shoulders, floated on the waves which were now meeting over the place where he stood. Confident that it would bear him up, Pepe stepped on to it, as on to dry land, while all his earthly treasure sunk out of sight.

Then Pepe woke. The sun had nearly set; a light breeze was gently carrying off the superfluous heat of the day; but his bark was empty, no Bright One sat in it, no beautiful fish lay there. Pepe listlessly looked over the side of his boat; the influence of his dream was yet upon him, and he could not restrain a look after his sunken prize. What was that? Something large and shining swam under his boat, surely! Hastily Pepe detached a little lamp which always burnt under a cross hung on the mast, and looked down into the clear blue waters, when lo! as if attracted by the light, the shining fish turned their small bright eyes towards it, as if they took the unwonted light for the rising sun, and swam straight at it almost within arm's length. Pepe was now at no loss what to do. Taking a large hook which lay in the bottom of his boat, he lashed it firmly to a long spar, and then hanging the lamp over the side of the boat, he prepared to seize the finny prey with his improvised harpoon. The lamp attracted them as before, and now came the struggle. Pepe was a small man, and the first fish he tackled was a foot taller than himself and well-nigh pulled him over the side of his boat. Pepe was glad enough to let him go, even at the cost of his weapon, which the fish carried down into the deep with him. Pepe was, as you know by now, one who never lost heart; he pulled out his narvaja (or long-bladed knife with a cross-hilt), and tied it to another long piece of wood. Pepe was gaining experience; this time he selected a smaller antagonist, and great was his joy when, after a brief encounter, he landed him safely in the bottom of the boat. Pepe was not avaricious, more anxious to share the good news with his family than to obtain a large haul, he only waited to take one moderate-sized fish more, and then he was off to his home.

Great was the joy in the village next morning, as the news of the new source of industry spread. Some were frightened, and said there must be witchcraft in it; but when they saw the trade prosper, they were glad enough to take it as the good gift of God, and from that time to this the Tunny fishery has never failed to enrich the dwellers on all the shores of the Mediterranean.

"WHERE ONE CAN DINE, TWO CAN DINE [89]."

In the days when our Lord walked on earth, it happened that one night He and St. Peter found themselves far from any city or village, on a bleak and desolate plain. Weary and footsore, it was with great delight St. Peter descried at last a light from a woodman's cot. "Lord, let us rest here, let us pass the night under this shelter," said St. Peter.

They knocked at the woodman's door; he was a good-hearted old man, and he welcomed the belated travellers with no grudging greeting. He heaped up the dry fagots and made the hut shine like a gilded palace with that brilliant blaze which no wood throws out like that of the olive-root; and such humble fare as he had he set before them without stint.

The bleak wind moaned without, through the lofty alcornóques [90], and rattled the ill-fitting door. But presently, above the moaning of the wind and the clatter of the planks, they heard a hand knocking outside. The woodman opened, and was rather taken aback to find two more wayfarers at the door. "Never mind," said St. Peter, "it's only some of our people, it's all right, 'Where one can dine, two can dine.'" A little embarrassed, the woodman scratched his head, as he thought of the slenderness of his stores, but made no opposition, and the strangers passed in. The wind moaned on, and another knocking came. The woodman opened, and found two more guests standing without. St. Peter, who had fancied he heard the soft voice of St. John murmuring a favourite canticle as he passed, rose to see who it was, and soon recognized the waving hair of gold of the youngest Apostle. "All right," said St. Peter, "let them in, they belong to our party too, 'Where one can dine, two can dine.'" The woodman, more and more puzzled, stood by and let them pass. He had hardly sat down when another knock was heard above the storm. With his habitual readiness, the woodman opened, and found two more strangers begging admittance. St. Peter, who seemed to have a natural aptitude for the office of doorkeeper, once more encouraged him to let them in, assuring him they all belonged to the same party; and after another knock, the number of the Apostolic college was complete.

The woodman looked wistfully at the empty table. He was the most hospitable of woodmen, and gave his last crumb without a grudge; but he was aghast at the thought that for the thirteen guests who had honoured his roof, there was not sufficient to help round; and he slunk away quite ashamed at the apparent but unavoidable stint.

Then He who first came in with St. Peter, rose and gave thanks, then broke the bread and passed it round, and called on the woodman to come and take his place among them. With fear and trembling the woodman sat down, and with fear and trembling he saw his few barley-loaves and his few grapes and fruits pass round and round till all were filled, and there remained over and above to them that had eaten a larger provision than he had ever seen under his roof before; but he durst not ask who was his guest, knowing it must be the Lord.

Then they lay down and slept, each wrapped in his travelling mantle, and in the blaze of the olive-root fire. In the morning when they rose to depart, the woodman, alarmed at what he had seen the night before, durst not ask them whither they went, but let them depart in silence. St. Peter, however, remained behind, and after thanking him for his hospitality, told him to ask what boon he would, and he would grant it. The woodman was a man of few wants, and after he had thought a minute, he answered that he was content with his humble lot; he did not want it changed. His only amusement was now and then a game at cards, when the season of wood-felling or any other chance brought an accession of companions to his hut for a few nights; and it would be a pleasure if he might always win whenever he played.

St. Peter looked grave; he did not much like giving an encouragement to card-playing; but then he considered the poor fellow's irreproachable character, his life of privations, and moreover his own unconditioned promise to grant his request, and finally, that each success, while it would do no harm to the well-regulated old man, would serve as a discouragement to all the other players; so he ended by giving his consent, only reserving one condition, that he should never play for stakes sufficiently high to injure his companions; and then hasted on to join the rest of his party, who had made some way while he was parleying.

"'Fortune is certainly for those to whom she comes,'" moralized the woodman when he was left alone, "'and not for those who seek her [91].' How many are there who would have given their ears for such a chance as I have had to-day; and it is given to me, who, being already gifted with content, want for nothing!"

Time passed on, and the woodman, being a just man, never abused the favour he had received, which however served, by the satisfaction which success always confers, to cheer his solitary life. At last the time came when the measure of his days was full; and resigning his spirit to the care of his Lord, it was carried by his angel to the realms above.

Now, all through his life it had rankled in his mind that he might have made a better and less selfish use of the gift St. Peter had bestowed on him, when now, for the first time, it occurred to him how to apply it. Then he turned to his angel, and begged him to stop on his way, at the bedside of the first poor dying man they passed whose soul was most in danger of being lost. The angel, who descried some charitable design in the request, bore him to a room in a great city where an escribano [92] lay at the last gasp. The demon of avarice sat on his pillow, straining to clutch the passing soul, while his young son and a clergyman knelt beside him, entreating him to be reconciled to God. "Caramba!" exclaimed the woodman, "surely, our Lord died for all, without even excluding escribanos!" As the good angel hovered over the bed, a gentle sleep fell on the dying man, and the demon relaxed his watch.

"Come, now," said the woodman, "you can't do any thing while the man's asleep, let's have a game at cards to wile away the time." "Agreed," said the demon, for cards being invented by his crew, he thought himself safe to win; "but how shall we manage about the stakes? You see you've had to leave your pocket behind you, so how will you pay me?" "I'll stake you something better than money," replied the woodman. "What say you to staking my soul, which is on its way to glory, against this escribano's soul, of which at best you are only three parts sure?" "All right," said the demon, who thought it one of the best chances he had ever had.

The woodman let him cut and shuffle and play what tricks he liked with the pack, secure of his success; and in less than half an hour his triumph was secure. The demon could not believe his eyes, but could not, either, deny his defeat; so, putting his tail between his legs, he laid his ears back [93] and disappeared through the floor, quite ashamed of himself.

While this was going on, the escribano had awoke from his refreshing sleep; freed from the solicitations of the demon of avarice, he no longer refused the ministrations of the minister of the Church, but had expressed his contrition for the sins of the past, and was ready to depart in peace with God and all the world.

When the woodman arrived at the gate of Paradise, accompanied by the soul of the escribano, St. Peter called out, "Who goes there?" "I, of the hut on the bleak moor," replied the woodman.