Patrañas

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 DINE88.”

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 alcornóques89, 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 her90.’ 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 escribano91 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 back92 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.

“Yes, you I know,” replied St. Peter; “but you don’t come alone – who is that black soul with you?”

“No, Señor, I don’t come alone, because I thought God loved to see men in good fellowship. This poor soul is only black because, being an escribano, some of his ink has stuck to him.”

“There’s no admittance here for escribanos,” replied St. Peter, “so creep in alone.”

“Nay, Señor; but I said not so when you came to my hut on the bleak moor and brought other twelve with you. Doesn’t ‘Where one can dine, two can dine,’ hold good here also?”

St. Peter could not say nay, so he turned his back while the woodman took up the soul of the escribano on his shoulders and crept in under the shade of the eternal groves.

HORMESINDA

At the period of the Moors’ most complete dominion over Spain, Pelayo, the noble scion of her ancient kings, stood almost alone in the defence of his country. Undismayed by the misfortunes of his race and people, or by the oppressive rigours of the conquerors, he never tired of rousing his brethren to a sense of their shameful condition, and stirring them up to the desire of again restoring their religion and the throne of their native rulers.

Meantime, his sister Hormesinda, no less ardent and patriotic, but weaker and more short-sighted, had thought to benefit her people by sealing a compromise with the invaders. Forgetful of the religious laws which forbid such a union, she married Munuza, one of the Moorish chiefs who reigned at Gijon, and for a few years imagined she had effected wonders because she had induced the conqueror to mitigate his oppressions.

Pelayo, however, was almost more distressed at the contamination of his sister, married to an unbeliever, than by the bondage of his fellow-countrymen; and being on the point of leading the people he had collected to an attack on the Moorish Alcázar, he first obtained an interview with her, within the king’s private apartments, with the view of inducing her to abandon her infidel lord.

Hormesinda, however, had chosen her path, and could not now escape its leadings; the interview was both stormy and touching. Pelayo, unflinching in his morality and patriotism, could find nothing to say to her but words of reproach. And Hormesinda could only urge, that though she might have been wrong in marrying the Moor, yet, now her word, and life, and love were pledged to him, she could not leave him.

Munuza despised the Christians, and so Pelayo had no difficulty in gaining access to Hormesinda accompanied by the venerable Veremundo, his father; but a Jew in Munuza’s service having betrayed the information that he had no less a person than Pelayo himself in his power, he ordered him to be captured and thrown into a dismal dungeon called a mazmorra.

No sooner did Munuza know that he had nothing to fear from Pelayo, than it became evident his moderation towards the Christians had been dictated less by Hormesinda’s representations than by dread of Pelayo’s reprisals, for he now began to add to the burdens of the conquered, without mercy. To crown all, he issued a decree by which all who would not make themselves Mohammedans were declared to be slaves.

This measure completed the indignation of the Christians; and when it became known where Pelayo was held in durance, it needed but little urging of Leandro, his brother, to lead the outraged population to the assault of the Alcázar of Gijon.

The impetuosity of the despairing population was irresistible. Munuza, inclined to despise them at first, found himself surrounded before he was aware, and sallied out with his reserve to give life to his troops and repel the insurgents. He had no sooner left the precincts of the palace than Hormesinda took advantage of the circumstance to set free her brother, who was thus enabled to show himself at the head of his people like a miraculous apparition, inspiring them with courage to drive all before them.

Munuza, obliged to escape for his life, re-entered the Alcázar, where Hormesinda awaited him with feminine tenderness, desirous only to make a bulwark of her body between him and Pelayo’s fury. Munuza, however, had doubtless courage, though it was the courage of an infidel; and not only refused to owe his life to the protection of a woman, but recognizing that it was her hand alone could have set his captive free, stabbed her and himself just in time to die at the entering feet of Pelayo and his victorious host.

This victory of the Christian arms was the first-fruits of many others, which, hardly fought through succeeding centuries, restored at last the whole of Spain to Christendom.

FILIAL LOVE BEFORE ALL

Among the countless romantic chronicles of heroism which form the basis of the popular literature of Spain, there are none more multiplied or more interesting than those relating to the Cid Don Rodrigo. His valorous services against the Moorish oppressors of his country were never forgotten by its grateful people; and every campaign, every act of his life became the theme of a chronicle or a ballad. It is scarcely remarkable that one so noted for his dauntless demeanour through life should have been a good and dutiful son in his youth; nor that one of his most celebrated deeds was prompted by the dictates of filial duty.

His father, Don Diego Lainez, was one of the most valiant knights of King Fernando of Castille. The king valued the old man, and loved to distinguish him with his special favour; but when he chose him for the governor of the young prince his son, he did it not so much to secure him the wisest counsellor of his kingdom as to honour the old man before his people.

Now at King Fernando’s court there was a noble, the Conde Lozano, as valiant and celebrated as Don Diego, but far from possessing his virtues.

Conde Lozano no sooner heard of Don Diego’s elevation than his heart was filled with rage and envy, which blinded his reason. Without stopping to consider the folly and wickedness of the action, he hastened to meet the venerable Don Diego, and loaded him with vituperation. Don Diego, with Christian moderation, strove to appease him.

Conde Lozano had a daughter who had all her life been the playmate of Don Diego’s son Rodrigo. Nothing could be more devoted than the love of the two children for each other; and their union had been long looked upon by both as only waiting their coming of due age for its celebration.

This consideration Don Diego at last resorted to, thinking that the Conde had only to be reminded of such a tie to staunch his indignation. But it was far otherwise. “Indeed no,” he replied with bitter irony, “now that his father has received such a distinguished position, the youth ought to have very different ideas. There is nothing to which he may not aspire now; and his flight shall certainly not be cut short by being tied to my poor daughter.”

“It is not his father’s position that can make any difference in his prospects,” firmly responded Don Diego; “he must win his own claim to honour by defending his country against its invaders, as all his ancestors have done.”

The Conde was in that state of unreasonable humour which takes offence at every word.

“His ancestors, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Why do you remind me of them? Have they done more than I?”

“All Spain speaks of their valour.”

“Then Spain unjustly lavishes on them praise due to me!”

“The king acknowledges it in the honour he has conferred on my person!”

“It is your old age, not your merit, that moved him; had he thought of merit, he would have given the office to me!”

“The best proof of where he considered merit to be, is seen by looking where he conferred the reward!”

“You mean to say, that I have no merit!” cried the Count, now losing all command of himself; and before Don Diego could show him that was not what he had said, he dealt him a blow on the face, and at the same time threw his sword on the ground, to show that it was a premeditated affront, and he had done it rather than afford him the satisfaction of a fair fight.

It is hardly possible in these days to realize the full extent of such an insult. In the semi-barbarous code which a life of continual warfare kept up, nothing but the life-blood of the offender could wipe out such a stain. Rodrigo came in while his father was yet chafing under the affront, which was not only regarded as personal, but as an injury to his whole house and lineage. It needed only to tell young Rodrigo, to rouse his choler, for the blood of his ancestors flowed warm within him, and young as he was, he knew that upon him devolved the duty of asserting the honour of his house. His father had no need to urge him. “You shall see, father, that I am not unworthy of the blood I inherit from you.”

“But there is one thing I have to tell you; yet one thing, which is like to cool your courage more than the fear of essaying your first arms against a tried warrior. Know that he who, with the five darts of his right hand, struck through the grey beard of my old age, was none other than – ”

“Tell me but his name, and I will smite him, whoever it may be!” interposed the impetuous youth.

“He was none other than Xiména’s father!”

The shock, so unexpected, was almost more than Rodrigo could bear. The mantling colour fled from his cheek. What were now to become of all the hopes of his young life? Either he must suffer the affront to remain a stain on the honour of his house, or he must avenge it, and for ever give up Xiména. No! his father’s honour was before any other consideration. Whatever it might cost him, he must, must assert that. And he hesitated no longer.

The Conde Lozano received him with all his superciliousness, asked him what he wanted with him, called him a “plucky little boy,” and bid him do what his “dad” had told him, “like a good child.”

Rodrigo felt too deeply the force of his wrongs and sufferings to have any heart to bandy words with him; he had come to demand satisfaction, and, by his knightly honour, the Conde could not refuse.

So they went out into the open, and drew their swords, leaving it to God to declare the right, for indeed, “the battle is not to the strong;” and so the sword of the stripling prevailed that day, and the bold, proud man fell vanquished at his feet.

The lifeless body of her father was brought in to Xiména. Helpless and filled with horror, she hastened to the presence of the king, to demand justice, little dreaming it was her Rodrigo she was denouncing. The king, equally ignorant of Rodrigo’s part in the matter, readily promised it, and gave orders for the arrest of the offender. But in the meantime Don Diego came in to denounce himself as the instigator of the deed. In his own manly way, he detailed the provocation he had received and the prowess of his son, and offered his own grey head in reparation, if the king judged that blood so shed called for justice.

The king refused to decide a matter of so great moment without his council, and put off considering the case till it should meet; meantime Diego was suffered to go at large, on parole that he would not leave Burgos.

The knight immediately sought out his gallant boy, whom he found trying to make his peace with and console Xiména; but Xiména would not be comforted. Only when he told her how miserable he was, she consented to listen to him; and then he reasoned with her, and asked her, Spaniard as he was, what could he have done otherwise? Had he preferred his own love for her to his father’s honour, would she have smiled on him then? Would she not have spurned him with contempt? She could not deny that. She admired his filial love and bravery; but her loss was fresh upon her, and she could not bear to see the sword which had executed her father hanging by his side.

Then it was Don Diego came in; and the meeting between the aged sire, proud of his noble son, and the son who had preferred filial duty before every other consideration, was a touching one; but fate required it should be brief. Don Diego was obliged to tear himself from his arms, and advise his leaving Burgos immediately; for, he said, “prudent and pious as you are, it is well you should not be taken; for when a man is taken and placed on trial, there is at least an idea of guilt passes upon him. It is better, my son, to avoid even this.” And so he sent him to the wars and told him to come back conqueror of the Moors, and the brightness of his fame should thus disperse the cloud which now hung over him.

Rodrigo was loth to part from Xiména without a sign of reconciliation; but his father urged his immediate departure, and his filial piety again prevailed. “I hear and obey,” he meekly answered, and so he went to fight the Moors.

A year and a day had passed away, and Count Lozano was quite forgotten, when all Burgos was set rejoicing at the deliverance which a young knight had effected over the Moors.

The king was keeping high court, when one day the venerable Don Diego came before him, bringing the standards which the young knight, his son Rodrigo, had taken. He told of how he had overcome hardship and peril, had cleared the roads of marauders, had fought his way up to Celin, the Moorish King of Mérida, had called him to meet him in single combat, had overcome him, and set free five Christian kings whom he held in cruel chains.

The narrative was received with joyful acclamations, the trumpets sounded, and, at a sign from the king, admission was given to the youthful hero, who threw himself at the monarch’s feet. Fernando raised him in his arms, and presented him with honour to his court. His pardon was assured, and old Don Diego was radiant with joy.

Suddenly, however, there was a commotion in the assembly; Xiména demanded audience of the king. She had come to ask whether any amount of honourable service could neutralize a sentence of death incurred – and if not, why was Rodrigo treated with honour, instead of being imprisoned as a criminal?

Now, Fernando could have explained to her the motives on which he had acted – could have bid her remember how it was Conde Lozano who had called down on himself the retribution he had suffered – could have pointed out the dangers that surrounded the kingdom, and the need in which it stood of men of fearless mind, such as Rodrigo; but, with the wisdom of a Solomon, he took a line which was better than argument. “If such is your will, maiden,” he replied, “I have nothing to say. You are the only living representative of the deceased Conde: if you maintain your charge against him, it is not for me to withstand it. Guards, lead Don Rodrigo to prison!”