International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1

"Thank God, Margarita, for this dainty dish. By San Pedro, friend, you may well bless your stars to find such a supper in the house of your host."

At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and beheld a stranger who Accompanied her master. The face of the old dame assumed suddenly an expression of wrath and disappointment; her angry glances fell on the new comer, and again on her master, who looked down, and said with the timidity of a child who dreads the remonstrance of his parent:—

"Peace, Margarita, where there is enough, for two, there is always enough for three, and you would not have wished me to leave a Christian to starve? he has not eaten for three days."

"Santa Maria! he a Christian, he looks more like a robber," and muttering to herself, the housekeeper left the room. During this parley, the stranger remained motionless at the threshold of the door; he was tall, with long black hair, and flashing eyes, his clothes were in tatters, and the long rifle which he carried excited distrust rather than favor.

"Must I go away?" he inquired.

The curate replied, with an emphatic gesture, "never shall he, whom I shelter, be driven away, or made unwelcome: but sit down, put aside your gun, let us say grace, and to our repast."

"I never quit my weapon; as the proverb says, two friends are one, my rifle is my best friend; I shall keep it between my knees. Though you may not send me from your house till it suits me, there are others who would make me leave theirs against my will, and perhaps head-foremost. Now to your health, let us eat." The curate himself, although a man of good appetite, was amazed at the voracity of the stranger, who seemed to bolt rather than eat almost the whole of the dish, besides drinking the whole flask of wine, and leaving none for his host, or scarcely a morsel of the enormous loaf which occupied a corner of the table. Whilst he was eating so voraciously, he started at the slightest noise; if a gust of wind suddenly closed the door, he sprang up and leveling his rifle, seemed determined to repel intrusion; having recovered from his alarm, he again sat down, and went on with his repast. "Now," said he, speaking with his mouth full, "I must tax your kindness to the utmost. I am wounded in the thigh, and eight days have passed without its being dressed. Give me a few bits of linen, then you shall be rid of me."

"I do not wish to rid myself of you," replied the curate, interested in his guest in spite of his threatening demeanor, by his strange exciting conversation. "I am somewhat of a doctor; you will not have the awkwardness of a country barber, or dirty bandages to complain of, you shall see." so speaking, he drew forth, from a closet a bundle containing all things needed, and turning up his sleeves, prepared himself to discharge the duty of a surgeon.

The wound was deep, a ball had passed through the stranger's thigh, who, to be able to walk, must have exerted a strength and courage more than human. "You will not be able to proceed on your journey to-day," said the curate, probing the wound with the satisfaction of an amateur artist. "You must remain here to-night; good rest will restore your health and abate the inflammation, and the swelling will go down."

"I must depart to-day, at this very hour," replied the stranger, with a mournful sigh. "There are some who wait for me, others who seek me," he added with a ferocious smile. "Come, let us see, have you done your dressing? Good: here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded. Give me a loaf—take this piece of gold in payment for your hospitality, and farewell." The curate refused the tendered gold with emphasis. "As you please, pardon me—farewell." So saying, the stranger departed, taking with him the loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly brought at her master's order. Soon his tall figure disappeared in the foliage of the wood about the village.

An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard. The stranger reappeared, bleeding, and wounded in the breast. He was ghastly, as if dying.

"Here," said he, presenting to the old priest some pieces of gold. "My children—in the ravine—in the wood—near the little brook."

He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in, arms in hand; they met with no resistance from the wounded man, whom they closely bound, and, after some time, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but in spite of all his remarks on the danger of moving a man so severely wounded, they placed him on a cart.

"Basta," said they, "he can but die. He is the great robber, Don Josè della Ribera." Josè thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head, then asked for a glass of water, and as the priest stooped to put it to his lips, he faintly said, "You remember."

The curate replied with a nod, and when the troop had departed, in spite of the remonstrances of Margarita, who represented to him the danger of going out in the night, and the inutility of such a step, he quickly crossed the wood toward the ravine, and there found the dead body of a woman, killed, no doubt, by some stray shot from the guards. A baby lay at her breast, by her side a little boy of about four years old, who was endeavoring to wake her, pulling her by the sleeve, thinking she had fallen asleep, and calling her mamma. One may judge of Margarita's surprise when the curate returned with two children on his arms.

"Santa Madre! What can this mean! What will you do in the night? We have not even sufficient food for ourselves, and yet you bring two children. I must go and beg from door to door, for them and ourselves. And who are these children? The sons of a bandit—a gipsy; and worse, perhaps. Have they ever been baptized?"

At this moment, the infant uttered a plaintive cry: "What will you do to feed this baby? we cannot afford a nurse; we must use the bottle, and you have no idea of the wretched nights we shall have with him."

"You will sleep in spite of all," replied the good curate.

"O! santa Maria, he cannot be more than six months old! Happily I have a little milk here, I must warm it," and forgetting her anger, Margarita took the infant from the priest, kissed it, and soothed it to rest. She knelt before the fire, stirred the embers to heat the milk quicker, and when this little one had had enough, she put him to sleep, and the other had his turn. Whilst Margarita gave him some supper, undressed him, and made him a bed for the night, of the priest's cloak, the good old man related to her how he had found the children; in what manner they had been bequeathed to him.

"O! that is fine and good," said Margarita, "but how can they and we be fed?"

The curate took the Bible, and read aloud—

"Whosoever shall give, even a cup of cold water, to one of the least, being a disciple; verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward."

"Amen," responded the housekeeper.

The next day, the good father ordered the burial of the poor woman, and he himself read the service over her grave.

Twelve years from this time, the curate of San-Pedro, then seventy years of age, was warming himself in the sun, in front of his house. It was winter, and there had been no sunshine for two days.

Beside him stood a boy, ten or twelve years old, reading aloud the daily prayers, and from time to time casting a look of envy on a youth of about sixteen, tall, handsome, and muscular, who labored in the garden adjoining that of the priest. Margarita, being now blind, was listening attentively, when the youngest boy exclaimed, "O! what a beautiful coach," as a splendid equipage drove up near the door.

A domestic, richly dressed, dismounted, and asked the old priest to give him a glass of water for his master.

"Carlos," said the priest to the younger boy, "give this nobleman a glass of water, and add to it a glass of wine, if he will accept it. Be quick!"

The gentleman alighted from the coach. He seemed about fifty.

"Are the children your nephews?" inquired he.

"Much better," said the priest, "they are mine by adoption, be it understood."

"How so?"

"I shall tell you, for I can refuse nothing to such a gentleman; for poor and inexperienced in the world as I am, I need good advice, how best to provide for these two boys."

"Make ensigns of them in the king's guards, and in order to keep up a suitable appearance, he must allow them a pension of six thousand ducats."

"I ask your advice, my lord, not mockery."

"Then you must have your church rebuilt, and by the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, with handsome iron railings to inclose the whole. When this work will be complete, it shall be called the church of the Vasa d'Agua, (Glass of Water.) Here is the plan of it, will it suit you?"

"What can this mean?"

"What vague remembrance is mine; these features—this voice mean that I am Don Josè della Ribera. Twelve years ago, I was the brigand Josè. I escaped from prison, and the times have changed; from the chief of robbers, I have become the chief of a party. You befriended me. You have been a father to my children. Let them come to embrace me—let them come," and he opened his arms to receive them. They fell on his bosom.

When he had long pressed them, and kissed them by turns, with tears, and half-uttered expressions of gratitude, he held out his hand to the old priest—

"Well, my father, will you not accept the church?"

The curate, greatly moved, turned to Margarita, and said: "Whosoever shall give even a cup of cold water unto one of the least, being my disciple; verily I say to you, he shall not lose his reward."

"Amen," responded the old dame, who wept for joy at the happiness of her master, and his children by adoption, at whose departure she also grieved.

Twelve months afterward, Don Josè della Ribera and his two sons attended at the consecration of the church of San Pedro, one of the prettiest churches in the environs of Seville.

* * * * *

SONG—BY MISS JEWSBURY

There once was a brave cavalier,
Commanded by Cupid to bow;
And his mistress, though lovely, I hear
Had a very Sultana-like brow;
In battles and sieges he fought
With many a Saracen Nero,
Till back to his mistress he brought
The fame and the heart of a hero:
But when he presumed to demand
The hero's reward in all story,