Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 430 | Page 6

feet foremost.
Come--to your good health, mine host, and let us to supper.'
The priest possessed an extremely good appetite, but the voracity of the
stranger soon obliged him to give up, for, not contented with eating, or
rather devouring, nearly the whole of the olla-podriga, the guest
finished a large loaf of bread, without leaving a crumb. While he ate, he
kept continually looking round with an expression of inquietude: he
started at the slightest sound; and once, when a violent gust of wind
made the door bang, he sprang to his feet, and seized his carbine, with
an air which shewed that, if necessary, he would sell his life dearly.
Discovering the cause of the alarm, he reseated himself at table, and
finished his repast.
'Now,' said he, 'I have one thing more to ask. I have been wounded, and
for eight days my wound has not been dressed. Give me a few old rags,
and you shall be no longer burdened with my presence.'
'I am in no haste for you to go,' replied the priest, whose guest,

notwithstanding his constant watchfulness, had conversed very
entertainingly. 'I know something of surgery, and will dress your
wound.'
So saying, he took from a cupboard a case containing everything
necessary, and proceeded to do as he had said. The stranger had bled
profusely, a ball having passed through his thigh; and to have travelled
in this condition, and while suffering, too, from want of food, shewed a
strength which seemed hardly human.
'You cannot possibly continue your journey to-day,' said the host. 'You
must pass the night here. A little rest will get up your strength, diminish
the inflammation of your wound, and'----
'I must go to-day, and immediately,' interrupted the stranger. 'There are
some who wait for me,' he added with a sigh--'and there are some, too,
who follow me.' And the momentary look of softness passed from his
features between the clauses of the sentence, and gave place to an
expression almost of ferocity. 'Now, is it finished? That is well. See, I
can walk as firmly as though I had never been wounded. Give me some
bread; pay yourself for your hospitality with this piece of gold, and
adieu.'
The priest put back the gold with displeasure. 'I am not an innkeeper,'
said he; 'and I do not sell my hospitality.'
'As you will, but pardon me; and now, farewell, my kind host.'
So saying, he took the bread, which Margarita, at her master's
command, very unwillingly gave him, and soon his tall figure
disappeared among the thick foliage of a wood which surrounded the
house, or rather the cabin. An hour had scarcely passed, when
musket-shots were heard close by, and the unknown reappeared, deadly
pale, and bleeding from a deep wound near the heart.
'Take these,' said he, giving some pieces of gold to his late host; 'they
are for my children--near the stream--in the valley.'

He fell, and the next moment several police-officers rushed into the
house. They hastily secured the unfortunate man, who attempted no
resistance. The priest entreated to be allowed to dress his wound, which
they permitted; but when this was done, they insisted on carrying him
away immediately. They would not even procure a carriage; and when
they were told of the danger of removing a man so severely wounded,
they merely said: 'What does it matter? If he recovers, it will only be to
receive sentence of death. He is the famous brigand, José!'
José thanked the intercessor with a look. He then asked for a little water,
and when the priest brought it to him, he said in a faint voice:
'Remember!' The reply was merely a sign of intelligence. When they
were gone, notwithstanding all Margarita could say as to the danger of
going out at night, the priest crossed the wood, descended into the
valley, and soon found, beside the body of a woman, who had
doubtless been killed by a stray ball of the police, an infant, and a little
boy of about four years old, who was trying in vain to awaken his
mother. Imagine Margarita's amazement when the priest returned with
two children in his arms.
'May all good saints defend us! What have you done, señor? We have
barely enough to live upon, and you bring two children! I suppose I
must beg from door to door, for you and for them. And, for mercy's
sake, who are these children? The sons of that brigand, gipsy, thief,
murderer, perhaps! I am sure they have never been baptised!' At this
moment the infant began to cry. 'And pray, Señor Clérigo, how do you
mean to feed that child? You know very well that we have no means of
paying a nurse. We must spoon-feed