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Title: The Life and Adventures of Guzman D'Alfarache, or the Spanish Rogue, vol. 1/3

Author: Mateo Alemán

Translator: John Henry Brady
        Alain René Le Sage

Release date: August 14, 2016 [eBook #52806]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Josep Cols Canals, Chuck Greif and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GUZMAN D'ALFARACHE, OR THE SPANISH ROGUE, VOL. 1/3 ***




Produced by Josep Cols Canals, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)











                                  THE

                          LIFE AND ADVENTURES

                                  OF

                          GUZMAN D’ALFARACHE,

                                  OR

                          THE SPANISH ROGUE.

                 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH EDITION OF

                            MONS. LE SAGE.

                         BY JOHN HENRY BRADY.

                            SECOND EDITION,

                 CORRECTED AND CONSIDERABLY IMPROVED.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.
                                VOL. I.

                                LONDON:

                PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME,
                  BROWN, AND GREEN, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                 1823.

                London: Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
                        25, Parliament-street.




                             ADVERTISEMENT

                                TO THE

                            SECOND EDITION.


The first large impression of this work, which was published in 1821,
being exhausted, and another edition called for, I have taken great
pains to render it still more acceptable to the reader. For the many
flattering notices bestowed on it by the Reviewers, I have to express my
sincere acknowledgments; and they will not fail to observe that their
remarks have had their due weight with me in the alterations I have
made. The translation has been carefully revised, and the parts
complained of as too significant have been softened down; and I trust,
from the superior type and paper in which _Guzman_ is now presented to
the public, that the _Spanish Rogue_ will be considered as dressed in a
style becoming one whose exploits have already obtained for him a
patronage for which he ought, rogue though he is, to feel grateful.

THE TRANSLATOR.

_London, 1823._




                         TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE.


“There is hardly any Language in Europe that knows not Guzman; and the
Spanish Rogue is as much talked of, as if there was no other in the
world,” is the commencement of the Preface to a “_Translation of Guzman
d’Alfarache_,” into English, by “several hands,” published in 1708: and
assuredly such _was_ the popularity of Guzman formerly: although _now_
even his name is unknown, except to the literati; and there is no
English translation of him extant, the above one excepted, with another,
still more ancient: both of which are only to be found in the select
libraries of a few of the learned and curious: particularly the latter
work; which is the production of Don Diego Puede-Sur; and was published
in 1634, by “_Robert Allot, at the Signe of the Blacke Bear, in Paul’s
Church Yard_,” to which, among others, is prefixed the subjoined
compliment by Ben Jonson.


      “ON THE AUTHOR, WORKE, AND TRANSLATOR.”

    “Who tracks this Author’s or Translator’s pen,
    Shall finde, that either hath read Bookes and Men:
    To say but one were single. Then it chimes,
    When the old words doe strike in the new times,
    As in this _Spanish Proteus_; who, though writ
    But in one tongue, was form’d with the world’s wit;
    And hath the noblest marks of a good Booke;
    That an ill man dares not securely looke
    Upon it, but will loath it, or let passe,
    As a deformed face doth a true Glasse.
    Such Bookes deserve Translators, of like Coate,
    As was the _Genius_ wherewith they were wrote;
    And this hath met that one, that may be stil’d
    More than the foster father of that Child:
    For tho’ Spaine gave him his first aire and vogue,
    He would be call’d henceforth the _English Rogue_.
    But that he’s too well suited in a Cloth
    Finer than was his Spanish, if my Oath
    Will be received in Court; if not, would I
    Had cloath’d him so. Here’s all I can supply
    To your desert, who’ve done it, Friend. And this
    Faire emulation and no envie is;
    When you behold me wish myself the man
    That would have done that which you only can.”
                            BEN JONSON.

Some years since, indeed, a Mr. O’Conner published another Translation,
avowedly “for the entertainment of a few friends who did not understand
French,” and for the incorrectness and mediocrity of which, he made many
apologies. This was re-published about four years since; but it is
little known: out of print I apprehend: confined to the few, and
inaccessible to the many.

These circumstances considered, and a reflection of pity that such an
eminent production of genius should be lost to the British Public, in
an age so devoted to the Arts in general, and Literature in particular,
induced me to engage in the Translation which I now present to my
readers; faithfully rendered from the French of Le Sage, whose
pre-eminent talents are too well known to render my expatiating on them
necessary. How far I have succeeded in catching the spirit of my
prototype (who certainly identifies himself most felicitously with his
original) others must determine; I can alone plead the most minute
attention, and persevering diligence. If, therefore, to arrive as nearly
at perfection as possible, I have consulted the most authentic sources
of information, and used the utmost assiduity in collating the
accessaries to the subject I engaged in, though approbation may be
qualified, it will not, I trust, be withheld: and though praise for
perfection be denied, acceptation will be accorded by liberality for
exertion, and by candour for fidelity.

To those friends, who, to stimulate endeavour, and give consistency to
hope, have honoured me with their names as Subscribers to the work,
gratitude demands my open avowal of unequivocal thanks: and while the
respect due to their own feelings must circumscribe the extent of this
declaration; I trust their justice and amity will lead them to
appreciate the acknowledgment in the full force of its warmth and
sincerity.

Before I conclude it may be necessary to make some observations on the
nature of the work, with which I shall include some remarks on the
Spanish Author.

The History of Guzman d’Alfarache was written originally in Spanish by
Mateo Aleman, Contador de Resultas to Philip II. (a situation of high
rank in the Royal Accountant’s Office), and was rapidly translated into
several Languages. Upon its reception by all polite nations, I have
already remarked: and it is significant, that the Author, in testimony
of his great genius, was called _the divine Spaniard_.

As in his History of Guzman, a professed rogue, he had to describe,
necessarily, predicaments and adventures of a nefarious character, that
they might produce the proper effect, a dissuasive from evil, he
accompanied each with moral reflections too enlightened to be slighted,
and too impressive to be easily forgotten: mingling circumstance and
reasoning so adroitly together, that entertainment and instruction, the
_utile et dulce_, are blended in the most effectual manner; and while
the one excites admiration, the other, as forcibly, not only counteracts
evil example, but impresses the mind fully with the vanity of folly, and
the turpitude of crime.

Mons. Bremont was the first who translated the work into French; and to
the moral reflections of Aleman he added many of his own, which from
their unreasonable frequency gave the work a sombre character, and
operated much to its disadvantage. To remedy this defect, Le Sage was
induced to render it into French, omitting what he considered the
_superfluous_ reflections of both. From Le Sage’s edition I have
translated it almost to the letter, leaving my readers to make
additional comments themselves; as their especial province if they read
profitably; but not at all the business of a Translator, who is bound in
justice to abide by the dictum of his Author, if he would exhibit him in
his true spirit, and accord to him the exact meed of merit to which he
has an indubitable claim.

Having thus premised, I submit the work, with the greatest diffidence,
to the reader’s indulgence: trusting that while, on the one hand, the
credit of assiduity will not be denied me, my youth, on the other, may
protect me from severity of criticism.




                                  THE

                                 LIFE

                                  OF

                          GUZMAN D’ALFARACHE.




CHAP. I.

_Introduction._


I was so desirous, curious reader, to relate to you my own adventures,
that I had almost commenced speaking of myself without making any
mention of my family, with which some sophist or other would not have
failed to accuse me: “Be not so hasty, friend Guzman,” would he have
said; “let us begin, if you please, from the definition, before we
proceed to speak of the thing defined. Inform us, in the first place,
who were your parents; you can then relate to us at your pleasure those
exploits which you have so immoderate a desire to entertain us with.”

To proceed, therefore, in due course, I will introduce my parents to
your notice. Were I to relate their history, I doubt not that you would
find it more entertaining than my own; but think not that I am going so
far to enlarge at their expence as to reveal all that I know of them:
let any other that pleases rake up the ashes of the dead, and regale
himself on their bodies, like the hyena; for my part, I shall so far
respect the memory of my parents, as to pass over in silence such things
as it would not become me to speak of; and it is even my wish so to set
off such as I shall recount to you, that it may be said of me, “Blessed
be the man who thus glosses over the crimes of his ancestors.”

Their conduct, however, has certainly not always been blameless, and
some of their actions have made so much noise in the world, that it
were in vain for me to attempt to make them appear spotless. I shall
only give the lie to the numerous comments that have been made upon the
truth; for, God be praised! it is the fashion now-a-days to disguise
truth by such comments. Every man who relates a story, whether from
malice or ostentation, is sure to interlard with it some portion of
slander, more or less; such is the good disposition of our nature, that
something of our own invention must be added to that which is expected
of us. I will relate to you an example of this.

I knew a gentleman at Madrid, a stranger, who was a great lover of
Spanish horses. He possessed two of a remarkably fine shape, a sorrel
and a dapple grey, which he would willingly have transported to his own
country; but it not being lawful, and, besides, scarcely possible, on
account of the very great distance, he resolved to have them painted,
that he might at least have the pleasure of shewing their pictures to
his friends. With this view he employed two celebrated painters, to each
of whom he gave a horse to paint; promising, over and above the price
agreed on, to recompense handsomely the one whose performance should
excel the other’s.

The first painted the sorrel almost to the life, and filled up the rest
of his canvas with light strokes and shades. The other painter was not
so perfect in the dapple-grey; but, to make amends, he adorned the upper
part of his picture with trees, clouds, a beautiful perspective and
venerable ruins, and he represented, at the lower part, an open country
abounding with shrubs, meadows, and waterfalls. In the corner of his
piece he had suspended all manner of horse-furniture on the trunk of a
tree, with a hunting-saddle, which for workmanship could not be
excelled.

When the gentleman saw the two paintings, he with reason very much
preferred the sorrel to the other, paid without hesitation what the
artist demanded, and presented him besides with a fine ring. The other
painter seeing the stranger so liberal, and conceiving that he deserved
a much greater recompence than his rival, set his performance at an
excessive rate; at which the gentleman, being surprised, asked him, “How
he could for a moment imagine that he would purchase his painting at a
higher rate than the other, to which it was undoubtedly much inferior?”
“Inferior!” answered the painter: “I grant that my brother may have
excelled me in the _horse_, but my shrubs and ruins alone are worth much
more than the whole of his painting.” “I had no occasion,” answered the
gentleman, “for your shrubs and ruins, we have enough of those in our
own country. In one word, all that I desired of you was a true painting
of my horse.”

The painter replied, that “a horse alone would have had but a very poor
effect in so large a piece, whereas the ornaments he had introduced had
given great relief to its appearance. Besides,” added he, “I could not
think of leaving a horse without saddle and bridle, and those that I
have made I would not change for others, though made of gold.” “Once
more,” said the stranger, “all I asked of you was a horse, for which I
am ready to pay you a reasonable price. In regard to the saddle and
bridle, you have only to dispose of them as you please.” Thus, for
having done more than was desired of him, the artist was not paid for
his trouble.

How many people are there in the world like this painter! A plain horse
only is required of them, and they will, peremptorily, give you him
saddled and bridled. Once more, slanderous commentaries are the fashion,
and nobody escapes them. Judge then, reader, if my parents have been
spared.




CHAP. II.

_Of the Parents of Guzman, but more particularly of his Father._


My ancestors, as well as my Father, were originally from the Levant; but
having settled in Genoa, and been ingrafted with the noblesse there, I
shall call them Genoese.

They employed themselves in the traffic of exchanges, which was much
practised among the gentry of that city. It is true that they acted in
such a manner in their commerce, that their credit was soon publicly
cried down, and they were accused of usury; it was moreover said of
them, that they lent money at an exorbitant interest, upon plate and
other good security, for a limited time, at the expiration of which, the
pledges, if not redeemed, remained at their disposal; sometimes they
even denied themselves, and evaded persons who came for the purpose of
reclaiming their property at the stipulated time, and, very frequently,
restitution could only be obtained by an appeal to justice.

My parents well knew that they were reproached with these and the like
villanies, but as they were prudent, peaceful people, they always went
on their own way, and cared not what detractors said of them. In fact,
when one behaves with decorum, why pay any regard to such slander? My
father was a constant attendant at church, and always carried about with
him a rosary of fifteen complete sections, each bead of which was larger
than a hazel-nut. He never failed at mass; humbly kneeling before the
altar, with his hands folded together, and his eyes turned up towards
heaven, he uttered such ejaculations, and sighed with so much fervency,
that he inspired all around him with devotion. Can it be believed, then,
without injustice, that with so truly religious an outward appearance,
he was capable of the infamous transactions of which he was accused? God
only is able to form a correct judgment of the heart of man. I confess,
that if I saw a religious man enter a house in the night-time, armed
with a sword, I might suspect his intention; but that such a man as my
father, who was constantly seen to act in this Christian-like manner,
should be taxed with hypocrisy, is a piece of malignity which I cannot
pass over.

Thus, though he had determined to treat all these unpleasant reports
respecting him with contempt, he found that he had not always resolution
sufficient to bear them with _patience_. That he might hear no more of
them, therefore, he determined upon leaving the City. Another reason for
his taking this resolution was, that he had received information that
his correspondent at Seville, with whom he was engaged for a
considerable sum, had become a bankrupt. At this distressing
intelligence he embarked immediately for Spain, in the hope of meeting
with that person. But the vessel in which he sailed being taken by the
corsairs, he was made a slave and carried to Algiers.

My father was now not only afflicted at the loss of his liberty, but was
obliged to give up all hope of regaining his money. In his despair he
took the turban; and having, by his insinuating manner, been happy
enough to be well received by a rich widow at Algiers, he shortly
afterwards married her.

In the mean time it was known at Genoa that he had been taken prisoner
by the pirates, and this news soon came to the ears of his correspondent
at Seville, who was the more rejoiced at it, as he fancied he had got
rid of his principal creditor, whom he considered a slave for life.
Finding, therefore, that one way or other he had sufficient remaining to
satisfy the others, he arranged his affairs with them immediately. So
that, having discharged all his debts, according to the mode prescribed
for bankrupts, he found himself able to commence business again in a
better condition than ever.

On the other hand, my father’s thoughts were still completely occupied
with the remembrance of his correspondent’s bankruptcy, and he never
failed to make inquiries respecting him in all his letters to Spain. He
learnt by this means, that his debtor had adjusted his affairs, and was
in a better condition than ever: this afforded some consolation to our
captive, who began to hope from that moment that he should recover some
part of his debt. As to his having taken upon him the Turkish habit, and
married in Algiers, nothing appeared easier to him than to clear himself
from any difficulty on that score. The first thing he did, was to
persuade his wife to turn all her property into ready money, telling her
that he was desirous to trade again. In respect to what jewels she had,
he made not the slightest scruple to possess himself of them, before she
had the least suspicion of his intention.

When he had thus got every thing in readiness, his next business was to
find out some christian captain, who, out of _compassion_ for him, _and
for a reasonable remuneration_, would undertake to transport him to the
Spanish coast, and he was fortunate enough to meet with one who was an
Englishman, with a feeling heart, and a proper sense of religion, which
the majority of his nation generally possess. Every thing was so well
ordered that they had got a considerable way out to sea with my father
and his treasure, before his wife had any knowledge of his departure. To
add to his good luck, the vessel was bound for Malaga, whence it is but
three short days’ journey to Seville. No sooner had my father landed,
than the idea of soon securing his rascally debtor seemed to complete
his joy. The first thing he did was to get reconciled to the church;
more, perhaps, from the fear of penance in this world, than from dread
of punishment in the world to come.

Having got rid of an affair of so great importance, he thought of
nothing but Seville, whither he hastened immediately. The news of my
father’s having embraced Mahometanism had got to Seville long before
him, and his correspondent felt so well assured of it, that he was
enjoying his money without entertaining the slightest apprehension of
ever being compelled to make any account of it: judge, therefore, of his
surprise upon seeing the Genoese strut into his house one fine morning,
with an imperious air, and dressed in a manner bearing but little
resemblance to a slave; he could not but believe him for some moments
to be some _spirit_ in the form of his principal creditor; but
recollecting, in spite of himself, that it was my father, in his own
flesh and blood, he was obliged at length to come to some explanation.
With the utmost effrontery, therefore, he agreed that _it was but right
to settle accounts_; but that they had so many and long dealings
together, that their business required a long discussion. It may be
boldly asserted, that during their commerce there had been a thousand
rogueries on both sides, known to themselves only; and as these slights
of hand, or mutual juggles, are never entered on tradesmen’s books, this
roguish correspondent had the audacity to deny three-fourths of them,
unmindful of the good faith and honor which thieves are said so
religiously to observe towards each other.

What more have I to tell you? After the perusal and reperusal of many
papers pro and con; after an infinity of demands and replies,
accompanied by reproaches and reciprocal hard words; an accommodation
was made, by which my father was content to lose the greater part of his
demand. Of water spilt we must recover what we can, and certainly my
father acted wisely in ridding himself at Malaga of _the itch of
Algiers_[A]. If he had not taken this precaution, he would have obtained
no redress, nor would he have touched a farthing of his debt. A man of
his correspondent’s character might easily have taken advantage of the
circumstance at Seville; perhaps by giving the half of his debt to the
Brothers of the Holy Inquisition to undertake the cause for him. You may
judge of the feeling he entertained towards him, by the reports that he
spread to his disadvantage throughout Seville. What absurdities did he
not relate to all the merchants upon ’Change, of two former petty
bankruptcies of the Genoese, which, in fact, were not without fraud;
but do other merchants act differently? Is it not hard then, thus to cry
down one unfortunate speculator who, to repair and patch up his deranged
affairs, has recourse to a little bankruptcy? This is nothing among
merchants; they easily make amends to each other by a compliment of the
like nature. If it were so very great a crime, would not justice take
care to remedy it? Undoubtedly; for so severe is she, that we see many a
poor devil well whipped, and sent to the galleys, for less than five or
six reals.

[A] Alluding to his having taken the Turban.

This rascal of a correspondent was not content with having destroyed my
father’s reputation by divulging his two bankruptcies; his malignity
went so far, that he endeavoured to make him appear ridiculous in the
world, by giving out that he took more pains with his person than an
antiquated coquette, and that his face was always covered with red and
white paint. I grant you that my father curled his hair, and perfumed
himself, and took a vast deal of pains with his teeth and hands. But
what of this? he loved himself, and not hating women, he neglected
nothing that he thought would make his person agreeable to them. This
afforded fine sport for our correspondent, who at first did some harm;
but as soon as my father became somewhat better known at Seville, he
contrived to efface all the bad impressions that slander had made, for
he conducted himself in so plausible a manner, and made a show of so
much uprightness and sincerity in all his actions, that he gained the
esteem and friendship of the first merchants in that city.

With the sum of money that he had brought with him from Algiers, added
to what he had recovered from his correspondent, my father now found
himself worth about 40,000 livres, which was not an inconsiderable sum
for him, who knew well how to conduct his business as a wholesale
trader. Nobody made greater noise than he on the Exchange: so well did
he get on, that after some years he purchased a house in town and
another in the country; he furnished them both in a magnificent manner,
especially his house of pleasure at St. Juan d’Alfarache, whence I
derive my title. But, as he loved pleasure, this house was the cause of
his ruin, by the very frequent expences he was led into; so that he
insensibly neglected his affairs and trusted to his clerks; and to keep
up appearances he was obliged to have recourse to play with rich
merchants whom he invited and entertained for that purpose, and of whom
he generally won.




CHAP. III.

_Guzman relates how his Father makes an acquaintance with a Lady, with
the consequences thereof._


Such was the life my father led, when being one day on ’Change among
other merchants, he discovered afar off a christening which seemed to
belong to persons of distinction; every body hastened to see it pass,
especially as it was whispered that it was the child of some person of
quality, whose baptism was wished to be as private as possible.

My father followed with the rest to the church, and stationed himself at
the font; not so much out of a desire to see the ceremony, as the face
of a lady whom an old knight led, and who, as it appeared, was to stand
for the infant, with this superannuated cavalier. Both the face and
figure of this lady were so admirable, that my father was much struck
with her appearance. Although in an undress, he could not but admire her
graceful deportment, and, as she chanced to raise her veil for an
instant, he beheld a face which completely charmed him: there certainly
was not a more lovely woman in Seville. He kept his eye immoveably fixed
upon this charmer, who was far from being displeased at observing it;
for beautiful women are never vexed at a man’s looking at them with
admiration, although he be of the very dregs of the people. She, in her
turn, took a very minute survey of the merchant, and not considering him
unworthy of a tender look, she bestowed one on him, which had the
desired effect so completely, that he scarcely recollected where he was.
He was not, however, so entirely lost as to forget to follow his
mistress, after the ceremony, to ascertain where she resided, and who
she was. He found that she lived with this old knight, and was kept by
him in a very expensive style, out of an income that he derived from two
or three rich benefices in his possession.

My father was not displeased at this discovery, for he felt assured that
such a woman could not live very contentedly with her old companion.
With this thought, he contrived all the ways he could to see her again
and to speak to her, but in vain; he never met her without her old
gallant, who never lost sight of her. But these difficulties only added
fuel to his flame, and served but to make him sharper and more eager. At
length he was fortunate enough, by dint of presents and promises, to
gain over to him a duenna, without whose aid he could never have
succeeded; this was apparently a good, religious old woman, who
(dissembler as she was) had free admittance into the knight’s house, and
was not in the least mistrusted. This hypocrite, a true agent of Satan,
excited the lady’s passions by continually speaking of the love and
constancy of the Genoese, whose good qualities she did not fail to
exaggerate. The lady, who did not possess the disposition of a tigress,
listened so far to the old woman’s persuasions that she commissioned her
to desire my father not to despair. It is certain, and not to be
wondered at, that she was more favourably disposed towards him than
towards her old knight, who was very disgusting, much incommoded with
the gravel, and oftentimes with the gout; while, on the contrary, the
merchant promised to realize her hopes of an active and vigorous young
gallant. A woman of experience could not hesitate an instant in her
choice. But as she was a prudent woman, who had more regard to her
interest than to anything else, she was rather perplexed how to act; for
though she was night and day completely beset by her keeper’s jealous
fears, so that it was scarcely possible for her to carry on a secret
correspondence with the Genoese, yet she was feathering her nest too
snugly all this while, through her old man’s kindnesses to her, to think
of giving him up so suddenly for a stranger.

Nevertheless, the lovers came to a proper understanding, through the old
woman’s mediation; the only difficulty after which was to get an
opportunity and place of interview. But nothing is impossible to love.
When the parties are agreed mountains even shall be divided to give them
way. The lady, who was a woman of some experience in these matters,
arranged the following plan. She proposed to the old gentleman to
accompany her to pass the day at a house of his at Gelvas. It was the
most pleasant time of the year, and he consented, therefore, to the
proposal, which was perfectly agreeable to him. It was not the first
time that they had made this same trip together, the old gentleman
being much attached to that part of the country. Of all parts of Spain,
Andalusia is, undoubtedly, the most pleasant, and no part of Andalusia
is so attractive as Gelvas and St. Juan d’Alfarache, two adjoining
villages, which the famous river Guadalquiver fertilizes with its
waters, winding about them in such various meanders, that it appears to
quit them with regret. The spot abounds with beautiful gardens, the most
delicious fruits and flowers, fountains, grottoes, and cascades. In a
word, everything that can flatter the sight, taste, and smell, is here
to be met with to admiration.

When the day for setting out on this trip arrived, servants were sent
off early in the morning to get everything ready at Gelvas. Some hours
after, the knight and his darling started, with the duenna, (who was
always of their company, and never at all in the way,) all three on
quiet mules, and followed by two footmen. When they had got just within
sight of my father’s house, by which they must of necessity pass, the
young lady was suddenly taken with so violent a fit of the cholic, that
she beseeched the old gentleman, if he did not wish to see her die on
the spot, to stop immediately; then slipping gently from the saddle to
the ground, as if she was half dead, she requested some rest and
refreshment, in a weak voice, saying that she could go no farther. The
old man, who from his heart sincerely pitied her, knew not what to say
or do; but the duenna, whose cue it was now to speak, represented in a
very prudent manner to the lady, that it was by no means proper that she
should remain in such a situation on the highway; that if she could not
manage to walk, she had better allow herself to be carried to the house
which was not far off, and which appeared to belong to some person of
distinction, who could not refuse to afford every accommodation to a
lady who so much required it. The old gentleman highly approved of the
duenna’s advice; and the pretended sick lady said, thereupon, that they
should do what they pleased with her, but that as to walking so far, the
cruel pains she was suffering rendered it utterly impossible. The two
footmen, therefore, carried her, whilst the afflicted old knight walked
on before to speak to the people of the house, to entreat them to afford
accommodation to his mistress for a few hours.

I have already told you that this house was my father’s. It was left in
the care of an old housekeeper, who had ample instructions how to behave
to serve him in this instance. As soon as she heard a knocking at the
door, she ran to open it, and pretending to be astonished at seeing a
stranger, she inquired his business in a trembling voice. “I only
desire,” answered the cavalier, “that you will be so kind as to allow a
lady, whom I am conducting to Gelvas, and who has been suddenly taken
ill at a short distance from hence, to rest herself for a short time in
your house, and that you will be kind enough to assist us in the
application of something which may relieve her.”--“If that be all,”
replied the housekeeper, “you shall have every reason to be satisfied,
for you could not have pitched upon a more charitable house.” In the
mean time, the sick lady came up to them, carried by her two footmen.
“Behold where she approaches,” cried the knight, “suffering grievously
with the cholic.”

“Walk in, Sir Knight, with your lady,” said the housekeeper, “you are
both most welcome. I only regret that my master is not at home to
receive you. He would spare nothing to entertain you as you appear to
deserve; but in his absence I will take upon me to perform his part in
the best manner I am able.”

She then conducted the lady into a fine chamber, with a noble bed in it,
the furniture of which was but half finished, that the old man might
have no cause of suspicion. Every thing being in readiness, such as
perfumed sheets, soft pillows, and a satin-pinked quilt, the lady was
soon put to bed, still complaining of the obstinacy of her disorder. The
housekeeper and the duenna, equally disposed to good works, heated some
flannels, which, as fast as they were brought to the invalid, she slid
down with her foot to the bottom of the bed. Had she not done this, she
would, undoubtedly, have been so incommoded that the heat would have
given her the vapours. She was obliged also to take a good draught of
mulled wine, which she could well have dispensed with; so that to
prevent the possibility of any other remedy still more disagreeable, she
declared that she felt relieved, and that if she were left alone for a
quarter of an hour, she doubted not that she should be, by that time,
perfectly well again. The good old man was very glad to find that she
felt an inclination to take some rest, which he considered as a certain
indication that she was getting better. He left the room, therefore,
immediately, not forgetting to lock the door after him, and to desire
the servants to make no noise, leaving the duenna only, with the sick
lady. He went himself to take a turn in the garden, waiting impatiently
for the happy moment when he should be summoned to attend his dear
mistress again, quite recovered of her cholic.

I fancy I need not inform you that my father was all this time in the
house; and, indeed, if my information has been correct, it was to the
interview which on this occasion took place between the lovers that I am
indebted for my being.

The sun by this time became rather too powerful in the garden, in spite
of the shade of the groves, and the coolness of the fountain. The old
knight being now tired, and besides quite uneasy to know how his nymph
did, resolved to leave the garden, and returned with a slow pace
towards the house. The lady, whom I shall in future call my mother,
pretended to be still fast asleep when the old man entered her chamber,
and as if the noise that he made in coming in awoke her, she complained
that he had not the complaisance even to allow her to rest herself for a
quarter of an hour. “A quarter of an hour,” cried he. “I swear by your
lovely eyes, my darling, that you have been asleep here for at least two
hours.” “No, no,” replied she, “I am convinced it cannot be half an
hour, for it seemed to me that I was just dozing off. However it may
be,” added she, “I feel that I never had more need of rest than at this
moment.” She put on a cheerful countenance, however, and assured the old
knight that she felt herself much better; which he was exceedingly glad
to hear: and finding that the heat had become so excessive that they
could not venture out on their journey again, he proposed to his
faithful mistress to pass the remainder of the day where she was, and
where they had met with so much more attention than they could have
anticipated. She consented, provided that the people of the house would
but allow of it; and so the old cavalier asked the housekeeper’s
permission, who told him that he was perfectly at liberty to make
himself quite at home in that house, and that so far from being
displeased, her master would be proud of such a favour. Having then
resolved to stay, they dispatched one of their servants to the house at
Gelvas, to desire the other servants who were already there, to repair
to them with a stock of provisions.

Whilst the knight was issuing these orders, my father stole out of the
house, got on horseback, and returned to Seville, merely to shew himself
upon ’Change, and to come back, to sleep, as usual, at St. Juan
d’Alfarache. The time appeared to pass but slowly to him; but, as he
had no reason to complain of his day’s work, he made more than usual
haste to set out on his return home again, where he arrived about six
o’clock. His old rival hastened out to meet him, apologizing and
requesting to be excused for the liberty he had taken. Compliments
passed on both sides, but more particularly on that of my father, whose
fine speeches and polished manners, though they cost him nothing,
entirely won the old man’s heart, insomuch that he himself conducted him
to his lady, who had just entered the garden to enjoy the air, the
excessive heat having considerably gone off. The merchant saluted her as
if she was entirely unknown to him, and she received him with as much
dissimulation, as if she had never in her life seen him before.

It not being yet the proper time to walk, the party entered a small
arbour, which was the more refreshing as it was situated on the bank of
the river. They began to play at primero, and the lady won, my father
being too gallant a man not to allow himself to lose in such a case.
After the game they took a turn round the walks, which was followed by a
good supper, which lasted so long that they no sooner rose from table
than they were obliged to return to Seville by water, in a small barge
which my father had caused to be set off with green boughs and flowers
for that purpose. To complete their entertainment, they heard concerts
of music performed by some persons that sung and played on several
instruments in a small boat, which immediately followed their’s down the
river Guadalquiver. At last, the lady and her old gallant, after having
been most agreeably entertained, returned hearty thanks to my father for
his handsome reception of them; which had such an effect on the old
knight that he thought he never could make sufficient acknowledgments
for it; and so great was the friendship he conceived for my father,
that I do not think he could have made up his mind to leave him so soon,
without the promise of seeing him again the next day.

This friendship was so well managed by the lady and my father that it
lasted during the life of the old knight, who, in truth, did not live
much longer. He was a worn-out rake, an old sinner, who had given
himself up entirely to pleasure, without the least fear of the other
world, or regard to what might be said of him in this. I was already
four years old when he died; but was not his only heir. The good man had
several other children by other mistresses, and we lived in his house
like tithe-loaves, every one of a different oven. Perhaps, if the truth
was known, he was no more their father than he was mine; but, however
that might be, as I was the youngest, and from the tenderness of my age
not so well able to help myself as my brothers, I should have come but
badly off among them, had I not in my mother a person well able to take
my part. In short, she was a woman of Andalusia. She did not wait till
the old man was dead to feather her nest; for no sooner was he given
over by his physicians, than, having all the keys, and being mistress of
the house, she took possession of everything worth carrying away,
leaving nothing but rags for his next of kin. Even the very day that he
died, his house was laid waste in a deplorable manner; while he was
gasping for life he lost even the sheets from his bed; and everything of
value was spirited away before the breath was out of his body. Nothing
but the four walls were left standing when his kindred came about him,
big with expectation. In vain they examined every thing; it was very
evident that some one had been there before them, and they found
themselves obliged to be at the expence of his funeral for the honor of
the family. They behaved, however, as well as they could, without
shedding many tears on the occasion; but who ever mourns much for a
person that leaves nothing? It is for heirs only who are well paid for
it to appear to be afflicted.

The kindred of the deceased had made sure of succeeding to a
considerable property. They could not possibly conceive how a man who
enjoyed fifteen thousand livres a-year in church revenues could die so
miserably poor. They knew that his house had been nobly furnished, and
could not doubt that he had been robbed of his effects. In vain did they
make every possible inquiry; in vain did they cause monitory letters to
be affixed to different church doors. Thieves never refund what they
have made off with, though under the dread of being excommunicated.
After all, my mother had good reasons for quietly taking possession of
the old gentleman’s property; for, a short time prior to his death, when
he had occasion to go to his strong box, or to inspect his jewels, or
had by chance bought some curious piece of furniture, he would say to my
mother: _Have but patience, my dearest, this is all for thee_. Besides,
if she had any scruple on her conscience after this, which she
considered as no less than a gift in form, you must needs acknowledge
that she well deserved her inheritance, for having contented herself for
several years with so disagreeable an old bedfellow; added to which, the
divines whom she consulted on the occasion completely acquitted her,
with an assurance that she had taken nothing but what was undoubtedly
her due.




CHAP. IV.

_Guzman’s Father gets married, and dies: what followed his death._


After the old knight’s death, to whom God be merciful, his chaste widow
quickly found another gallant, and I another father, in the person of
the Genoese. My mother was cunning enough to persuade them both that I
was their son, telling the one, that I was his living picture, and at
another time, assuring the other that two eggs could not be more alike.
Happily for me, whether I owe my existence to the old knight or to the
young Genoese, I certainly was born a gentleman. On my mother’s side, my
nobility cannot be disputed. I have a hundred times heard her say, that
my grandmother, who prided herself as much as my mother upon her
chastity, reckoned, in the number of her relations, so many illustrious
persons, that you might make a tree of their genealogies, as large as
that of the house of Toledo.

It is, nevertheless, possible that my discreet mother might have had a
third gallant in some commoner, for she that deceives one man is very
capable of deceiving two; but whether it was instinct, or that I
confided in my mother’s assurance, I always looked upon the noble
Genoese as my father, and I can assure you, that whether he actually was
my father or not, he loved both my mother and me most tenderly; which he
made sufficiently appear afterwards, as regarded her, by the bold step
he ventured to take in marrying her. He knew very well what reputation
she had, and that he should be pointed at in the city, where my mother
was well known by the name of the knight’s lady. But what did he care
for that? he knew very well what he did; for at the commencement of
their acquaintance his affairs were on the decline, and the continuation
of it did not, by any means, tend to ameliorate them; while the lady,
who had at least as much knavery about her as good management, had
dispensed her favours to so good an account, that she was now mistress
of at least ten thousand ducats, which sum was the means of saving my
father from another stoppage he was on the point of making, and enabled
him to make as good a figure as ever among the merchants. He was,
unfortunately, passionately fond of company, splendour, and show; but as
he could not long satisfy this ruling passion, without plunging himself
into the same difficulties again, from which my mother’s money had but
just extricated him, he found himself, a few years after his marriage,
obliged to become bankrupt again for the last time; I say the last time,
because, finding himself without resource, and utterly unable to keep
up his former equipage and appearance, he chose rather to die with
chagrin, than to survive the date of his prosperity.

Life had more charms for my mother, who bore my father’s loss with
considerable fortitude, though she was much afflicted at his death. Our
houses were obliged to be given up to his creditors. We had now only a
few jewels left, besides the furniture, which my mother turned into
money, and retired to a small house where she determined to live in a
private manner, as well as she could. She did not take this step on
account of her inability to maintain us by fresh intrigues; for,
although she was already in her fortieth year, she had always taken such
good care of herself, that even at this time of life, she was not a
conquest to be despised; but as she could not make up her mind to make
the first advances to men who had formerly sought her favours with
ardour, this noble feeling of pride so ill accorded with the situation
of our domestic affairs, that they daily grew worse and worse.

I doubt not that my mother has a thousand times wished she had had a
girl instead of me, which would, undoubtedly, have been much more to her
advantage, and who might have been a support to her, as she herself was
to my grandmother, of whom I feel it incumbent on me to afford you a
more detailed account. She was one of the finest women of her time in
the kingdom, was extremely witty and well-bred. None but young noblemen
were admitted into her house, such as wished to improve themselves in
politeness and gallantry, and they certainly might be said to be fine
gentlemen, after having gone through her course of lessons for a few
years. But what is most to be wondered at, is the perfect harmony that
reigned among her scholars. While she had given her mind up to perfect
these young folks, she lay in with my mother somehow or other; and, as
she herself scarcely knew how this happened, she gave every one of these
gentlemen the honour of it separately, satisfying each of them that her
daughter resembled him in some particular. “Do but look at her mouth,”
would she say to one; “observe but her eyes,” would she say to another;
“you cannot pretend to disown this child;” and the more to induce them
to believe her, she took great pains always to call her by the name of
the cavalier who was present; and if there happened to be more than one,
which was not uncommonly the case, she was called Donna Marcella, which
was her christian name; as for the Donna, it would be unjust, indeed, to
dispute her right to that title, since she, without doubt, was the
daughter of a person of quality. But to let you a little more into the
secret of her birth, you must know, that among my grandmother’s gallants
there was one whom she loved best of any; and as this gentleman was a
Guzman, she considered that she might conscientiously make her daughter
descend from so illustrious a house. At least this is what she
afterwards told my mother in confidence, though she confessed at the
same time, that for ought she knew, she might have been begot by a
certain lord, who was a near relation to the dukes of Medina Sidonia.

From what I have now told you respecting my grandmother, you will
perceive that she was scarcely to be matched in love intrigues;
nevertheless, as she was a very extravagant woman, and never so much as
thought of laying by the profit of her favours, she must inevitably have
been reduced to indigence in her old age, had not her daughter’s beauty
began to shine forth in proportion as her own faded and declined. The
good old lady was very impatient until the little Marcella was
sufficiently grown and well-shaped to think of settling her; and
finding that at twelve years old she was very forward for her age, she
no longer delayed endeavouring to provide for her. A merchant newly
arrived from Peru, and richer than a jew, enjoyed her first favours,
through the assistance of four thousand ducats, which he presented to my
grandmother; and finding a successor as generous as the merchant, for
every day in the week, she lived in plenty, by that means, for the
remaining part of her life.

A daughter in my stead, would, certainly, then, have been better for my
mother, or even had she had us both, my sister would have been a harbour
for us in our present wreck, and we should soon have made a good fortune
at Seville, where purchasers are always sure to be found for every sort
of commodity. It is the common retreat of persons who have only their
wits to live on: it serves as the mother to orphans, and a cloak to
sinners. At all events, if that city were not sufficient, we could have
proceeded to Madrid, where such a jewel is always saleable. If, at
first, we were not able to dispose of it for a permanency, there we
could, at least, put it in pledge to so good an account, as always to
live in plenty. If I am not more awkward than another man, I think that
having a pretty sister, I could have managed to obtain some good
preferment; but Heaven ordained it otherwise, and made me an only son
for my sins.

I had just entered my fourteenth year, and as I could not look without
pain on the misery with which we were threatened, I resolved to leave my
mother and my country, and to seek my fortune elsewhere. My wish to
travel was for the purpose of seeing and knowing a little of the world,
and I always had a particular desire to visit my father’s relations at
Genoa. So that not being able any longer to defer the execution of my
design, I left Seville on a beautiful day, with my purse almost as
destitute of money as my head was crammed with idle fancies and
chimeras.




CHAP. V.

_Guzman sets out from Seville. His first adventure at an Inn._


As I remembered to have heard said that it was usual with such as have
to to seek their fortunes to give themselves names of consequence,
without which they would pass for nobody in strange countries, I took my
mother’s name, which was Guzman, and to add to it d’Alfarache. This
appeared to me so well imagined, that I felt fully persuaded in my own
imagination that I was already nothing less than the illustrious Don
Guzman d’Alfarache.

This newly created signor not having set out until late in the
afternoon, went but a short distance the first day, though he made what
haste he could for fear of being pursued. In fact I went no farther than
the chapel of St. Lazarus, which is but a short way from the city. Being
already fatigued I sat down on the steps rather sorrowfully, beginning
to feel some anxiety as to what would become of me. After having sat
there thinking for some time, a religious idea came across my mind,
which I immediately gratified by entering the chapel, where I addressed
myself to God, beseeching him to inspire me with his counsels. My prayer
was fervent, but short, the time not allowing me to make it longer, for
it was just the hour for closing the chapel, which I was therefore
obliged to quit, and I was left on the steps again, where I remained not
without fear of what might happen to me.

Represent to yourself at the door of this chapel a child who had been
accustomed to every indulgence and maintained in plenty. Consider that I
knew not where to go, nor what to decide on. There was no inn near to
the place, though my appetite informed me that it was quite supper-time.
There was certainly plenty of clear water running within a few paces of
me, but this was a cheerless prospect. I began now to find the
difference between an hungry man and one who has his bellyful; between a
man who is accustomed to a table covered with good victuals, and one who
has not a morsel of bread to eat. Not knowing what to do with myself,
nor at what door to venture to rap, I made up my mind to pass the night
where I was. I laid myself down, therefore, at full length, covering my
face with my cloak as well as I was able, not without fear of being
devoured by wolves, which I sometimes fancied I heard not far from me.
Sleep, however, at last suspended my uneasiness, and took so fast
possession of my senses, that the sun had been up two hours before I
awoke, and which perhaps I had not done then, but for the noise of
tambours, made by a number of country wenches who passed me singing and
dancing along the road, on their way to some festival. I rose quickly,
and perceiving several ways equally unknown to me, I chose the
pleasantest, saying; “may this road, which I take by chance, conduct me
in a straight line to the temple of fortune.” I was like that ignorant
quack of la Mancha, who generally carried about with him a bag full of
prescriptions, and when he visited any sick person, put his hand in at
random, giving the first that came uppermost, saying, _God grant it may
do thee good_. My feet performed the office of my head, and I followed
them without knowing whither they led me.

I walked two leagues that morning, which was not a short distance for a
lad to do, who had never travelled so far in his life before. I believed
myself already arrived at the Antipodes, and that I had discovered
another world, like the famous Christopher Columbus. This new world,
however, was nothing but a miserable tavern, which I entered all in a
perspiration, covered with dust, and dying with fatigue and hunger. I
asked for dinner, and was informed that there was nothing but fresh eggs
in the house. “Fresh eggs,” cried I; “well, I must be content; make
haste then, and prepare me an omelet of about half a dozen.” The
hostess, who was a frightful old woman, began to examine me with
attention, and seeing that I was a raw, herring-gutted looking lad, and
very hungry, she thought she might safely venture to pass upon me for
fresh, some eggs which were about half hatched. With this opinion she
came up to me, and laughing in my face with as pleasant an air as she
could affect, she asked me whence I came? I told her from Seville, and
entreated her afresh to let me have the eggs; but before she did what I
desired, she thrust her nasty hand under my chin, saying, “And where is
my little wag of Seville going?” At the same time she wished to kiss me;
but I turned quickly round to avoid this felicity. I was not, however,
so quick as entirely to escape her stinking breath, the fumes of which
made me fear it would have communicated her age and distempers to me;
fortunately, I had nothing but wind on my stomach, or I should certainly
have vomited over her, as the only return I could make her for such a
compliment.

I told her I was going to Court, and entreated her again to let me have
something to eat. She then made me sit down on a broken stool, before a
stone table, on which she laid a napkin, which looked as if it had but
newly cleaned the oven. On this she placed, for a saltcellar, the
bottom of a broken earthen pot, and some water in a vessel of the same
ware, out of which her fowls generally drank, together with a coarse
piece of cake, as black as the before-mentioned table cloth. After
making me wait about a quarter of an hour longer, she served up, on a
filthy platter, an omelet, or what might more properly have been termed
an egg poultice. The omelet, plate, bread, drinking-pot, saltcellar,
salt, napkin, and hostess, appeared to be precisely of the same colour.
My stomach ought to have revolted against such disgusting appearances;
but, independent of my being a young traveller, I had fasted so long,
that my bowels reproached me most violently with their unkind usage; so
that notwithstanding the uncleanly arrangements on the table, and the
bad seasoning of the eggs, I attacked the omelet as hogs do acorns. I
felt, indeed, something grate between my teeth, which ought to have
made me suspect that all was not right, but I took no notice of it; but
when I had got to the few last mouthfuls, I could not help thinking that
this omelet had not exactly the same taste as those I had eaten at my
mother’s house; but this I good-naturedly attributed to the difference
of the country, imagining that eggs were not in all places equally good,
as if I had been five hundred leagues from home. After I had demolished
this excellent dish, I felt myself so much better than I was before,
that I was more than usually happy in having got so good a meal; so true
is it, that _hunger is the best sauce_.

I did not so soon get through the bread, it being so bad that I was
obliged to eat slowly, or I should certainly have choaked myself with
it. I began with the crust and ended with the crumb, which indeed, was
so little baked that it was little better than dough; notwithstanding
which, however, I played my part very creditably, but not without the
assistance of the wine, which was delicious. I rose from table as soon
as I had finished my dinner, paid my hostess, and set forward on my
journey again in good spirits. My feet, which before were scarce able to
bear me, seemed now to have completely regained their former activity.

I had already got about a league from the inn, when what I had eaten
beginning to digest, seemed to create such a combustion in my belly,
accompanied by such a rising in my stomach, that I began to suspect
something. I had not forgotten the resistance that my teeth had met with
in getting through the eggs, and after reflecting what it could be for
some time, I doubted no longer, that my omelet had been amphibious, and
must have had something in it that should not have been there. So that
not being able to carry such a burden about with me any longer, I was
obliged to stop to relieve myself.




CHAP. VI.

_Guzman meets with a Muleteer and two Friars; of their conversation; and
in what manner the Muleteer and he were regaled at an Inn at
Cantillana._


I remained for some time leaning against the wall of a vineyard, very
pale and much weakened by the retchings that I was making. A muleteer
passed by with some unladen mules; he stopped to look at me, and seeing
me in such a condition, asked what ailed me: I told him what had
happened to me, but no sooner had I said that I imputed my illness to
the omelet that I had eaten at the inn, than he began to laugh so
violently, that if he had not held himself fast on his mule with both
hands, he must infallibly have fallen to the ground.

When one is afflicted, it is by no means agreeable to be laughed at. My
face, which just before was as pale as death, became as red as fire in
an instant, and I looked with so ill an eye upon this rascal, as
sufficiently gave him to understand that I was far from being pleased at
his behaviour; but this only made him laugh the more; so that perceiving
that the more I vexed myself, the more he laughed, I allowed him to go
on until he was completely exhausted: besides, I had neither sword nor
stick, and at fisticuffs I should have fared but badly; I was,
therefore, prudent enough to speak him fair. A wise man, however much he
may be offended, never sets up for a bravo when the party is too strong
against him; besides, I did not think fit to disoblige my man, for the
sake of his mules. I could not, however, entirely refrain from
mentioning it to him. “Well, my friend,” said I, “and why all this
violent mirth? does my nose stand awry?” But the only answer I could
obtain to these questions, was a renewal of his immoderate laughter.

It pleased God, however, that he at length gave over; and recovering
himself by degrees, he said to me, gasping for breath all the while, “It
is not at your adventure, my little gentleman, that I laugh, for it is
certainly very unfortunate for you; but your relating it reminded me of
another which has just happened to that same old hag that treated you so
ill. Two soldiers whom she regaled in the same manner, have sufficiently
revenged you all three. As we are going the same way,” added he, “jump
up on one of my mules, and I will tell you the story as we ride along.”
Without waiting to be twice asked, I mounted one of his beasts, and was
ready to hear what he had to tell me respecting these two soldiers, whom
I recollected to have met entering the inn just as I left it.

“These two wags,” said he, “asked the hostess what she had to give them.
She told them in the same manner as she did you, that she had nothing
but eggs; they bade her make ready an omelet, which the old woman soon
brought them; but in cutting it their knives found resistance from
something which they proceeded to examine with attention, and discovered
three small lumps, much resembling the heads of unformed chickens, whose
beaks were already so hard as plainly to shew what they were. The
soldiers, after having made so rare a discovery, without taking any
notice of it, covered the omelet with a plate, and asked the hostess if
she had nothing else she could give them; she proposed to broil them two
or three slices of shad-fish, which they accepted, and soon dispatched,
with the assistance of white sauce; after which, one of these rogues,
going up to the old woman, as if for the purpose of paying the
reckoning, with the omelet concealed in his hand, clapped it full in
her face, and so completely rubbed it all over her eyes and nose, that
she bawled out for help most lustily; whereupon the other soldier,
seeming to blame his comrade and pity the poor old woman, ran up to her
under the pretence of consoling her, and stroked her over the face with
his hands all bedaubed with soot. This done, they both left the house,
still continuing to abuse your old acquaintance, who got no other
payment for her entertainment. I assure you,” said the muleteer, “it was
a high treat to see mine hostess in this delicate condition, with the
agreeable distortions of countenance that she made, crying and laughing
at the same moment.”

The recital of this ridiculous story somewhat consoled me for my own
adventure, and inclined me to forgive the laughter of the muleteer, who
did not fail to set to again as soon as he had ended his narration. All
this while we were trotting onwards; we overtook two friars, who, having
seen us from afar off, had waited till we came up, that they might have
the benefit of the mules. They quickly agreed with the muleteer to carry
them to Cazalla, whither he also was going; and, having mounted their
mules, we continued our journey.

The muleteer was still too much taken up with the recollection of his
pleasure at the inn, to give up speaking of it so soon. He could not
resist telling us that there was sufficient in that adventure to serve
him for laughter for the remainder of his days; “and I,” cried I,
interrupting him abruptly, “shall have cause to repent all my life that
I did not serve that poisonous old hag even worse than the soldiers did;
but she is not yet dead,” added I, “and I may have my revenge still.”
The friars, remarking with what eagerness I uttered these words, were
curious to know what had been the occasion of it. The muleteer, who
desired no better sport, that he might have another excuse for a good
hearty laugh, related the story anew to these gentlemen: and in the
course of it introduced my misfortune also, which was no small
mortification to me.

The friars condemned exceedingly the conduct of the old hostess, and
blamed my resentment no less. “My son,” said the elder of the two to me,
“you are but young; hot blood carries you away, and deprives you of the
use of your reason; know that you have sinned as much in having
regretted that you have lost the opportunity of committing a crime, as
if you had really committed one.” The holy man did not finish his
remonstrance here, but held a long discourse upon anger, and the desire
of revenge. It appeared to me so like a sermon, that I was persuaded he
had preached it more than once, and that he was glad to have the
opportunity of refreshing his memory by repeating it. Certain it is,
that the most part of what he addressed to me was far above my
comprehension, as well as that of our muleteer, who thinking of nothing
but the old woman, was laughing in his sleeve, all the time that the
preacher was throwing away his time upon us. At length we arrived at
Cantillana, where the two friars took leave of us until the next
morning, and went to take up their night’s lodging at a friend’s house.

For my part I did not leave the muleteer, who told me that he would
undertake to carry me to one of the best inns in the town: where the
host was an excellent cook, and where I need not be afraid of having
hatched eggs passed upon me. This assurance pleased me exceedingly, for
I required a good meal to set me to rights: and we proceeded to the door
of a house of tolerable good appearance, the master of which received us
with great civility. This was perhaps the completest knave in that part
of the country; and I only got out of the fryingpan into the fire, as
the saying is. The muleteer led his beasts to the stable, where he
remained for some time to provide for their wants, and as I was much
fatigued, the soles of my feet being much swollen, and my thighs feeling
as if they were broken, from riding three or four hours without
stirrups, I laid myself down and rested until the muleteer returned, who
asked me whether I was not ready for my supper; for that he had resolved
to set out next morning at break of day, that he might reach Cazalla
before night, and should therefore be glad to get to bed early. I
answered that there was nothing would give me greater satisfaction than
to sit down to table, provided he would assist me to rise and even to
walk, as I could scarcely support my own weight. He did me this service
so readily that I felt much obliged to him.

We then called the landlord, and told him that we wished for a good
supper. “Gentlemen,” answered he, “I have such excellent provisions in
the house, that you will have yourselves only to blame if you do not
fare well, for you have only to say what you would like.” This answer
pleased me exceedingly, but I was afraid that he exaggerated, for I
fancied that he had the looks of a rogue; no matter, said I to myself,
let him be as much a rogue as he pleases, so he use us but well; he was
a pleasant sort of fellow, and a man of some humour. “Will you allow
me,” said he, “to dress you a part of the pluck of a calf that I killed
yesterday? I will make you a ragout of it fit for the Gods; it was the
prettiest little calf,” added he, taking me kindly by the hand, “that
you perhaps ever saw. I was extremely mortified that I was obliged to
kill it, but the drought of the season would not allow me to keep it.”
We begged that if our supper was ready, he would let us have it
quickly; “it is not only ready dressed,” said he, “but well seasoned
also;” upon which he skipped into the kitchen, and returned in a few
minutes with two plates, in one of which was a sallad, and in the other
a part of the pluck of this much-lamented calf.

My companion seemed to fancy the sallad, for which I cared but little,
but fell on the pluck, which looked tolerably good. All that I
complained of was, that there was but very little of it for two such
hungry fellows; for no sooner had I touched a bit, than I bolted it
down, and I was so hungry that I had no time to judge of what I was
eating. The muleteer, observing from the manner in which I set to, that
I should soon empty the plate, quitted his sallad that he might at all
events dispute the last mouthfuls with me, which were demolished in a
moment. We called for another plate, but our provoking host brought us
less than before to sharpen our appetites, so that we might still wish
for more; this second plate, therefore, amused us but a very short time,
and was followed by a third.

Being by this time, however, about half satisfied, I found myself
obliged to slacken my pace; neither did I think it so good as before. I
desired our host, therefore, to let me have any thing else that he might
have in the house; he answered, that if we pleased, he would make an
exquisite ragout of the calf’s brains in an instant; in the mean time he
sent us up an andouille made of the tripe and caul of the same beast,
which he told us we should find most delicious eating; but I could not
entertain so favorable an opinion of it when I had tasted it, for it
savoured so strongly of rotten straw that I was fain to leave it to my
companion, who still went on at the same rate, and demolished the whole
of the andouille in the twinkling of an eye.

At length the ragout of brains was served up, which I hoped would have
revived my appetite; it was dressed with eggs, so that it was a kind of
omelet, which the impudent muleteer had no sooner noticed, than he set
up another of his hearty laughs; this offended me, for I thought that he
wished to disgust me with this omelet, by putting me in mind of the one
I had dined off. I gave him to understand as much, at which he only
laughed the more, which produced a pleasant scene enough; for our host,
who neither knew why he laughed, nor why I was so angry, listened to us
attentively, thinking himself concerned in the affair. Not feeling his
conscience quite at rest respecting either the brains, the andouille, or
the other dish with which he had regaled us, he was under as much
apprehension as a criminal who is afraid of every thing he hears; and
his fears redoubled when he heard me threaten the muleteer, if he
continued laughing at me, to throw the brains against the wall. Our host
turned pale at these words, thinking that we meant to accuse him; but
wishing to appear firm and resolute, he came up to us, cocking his
bonnet with a most furious look, and said: “Before God, gentlemen, I
will not submit to so much laughing; I do maintain, and ever will
maintain it to be good calf’s brains. If you will not believe me, I can
produce evidence to prove the fact, of more than a hundred persons who
saw me kill the calf.”

My companion and I were not a little surprised at the passion of a man
whom we had not so much as thought of. The muleteer redoubled his
laughter; and I could not refrain from following his example on the
occasion, though, from another cause, I felt no great inclination for it
at that time. This put our host completely out of countenance, who,
doubting no longer that we had detected his villany, became more
furious, and, snatching the plate rudely from the table, “You may go
laugh and eat elsewhere,” said he, “for I will no longer entertain
people who make a jest of me to my face; you have only to pay me,
therefore, and leave my house; after which, you have my permission to
laugh as long as you please.”

My comrade, who was still hungry, and did not see the plate handed off
without regret, finding it no joke, said to the host, in a voice not the
most agreeable, “What ails you, friend? has any one been asking your
age? has any one been calling you chucklehead?” “Chucklehead or not,”
replied our host, “I affirm it is a most excellent calf’s head.” He
pronounced these words as if he intended to thrash us both; but the
muleteer, who knew him better than I, and who was a good match for him,
rose from the table, and, taking upon himself the braggadocio in his
turn, “S’death!” cried he, “is there any law that prescribes how much a
man may laugh in this inn? or is there any tax laid upon laughing?” “I
never said that there was,” replied the host, apparently somewhat more
mild. “I only say that I will not be turned into ridicule in my own
house, nor be made to pass for one who treats his guests ill.” “Who says
any thing of ill treatment?” replied the muleteer; “who thinks of
turning you into ridicule? Be quick, and replace the ragout of brains on
the table, and you shall soon see that it was not that we laughed at. I
cannot see, however, what objection you can have to allow persons to
laugh or cry as much as they please in your house as well as elsewhere.”

The muleteer’s speech had its effect; the delicious ragout which had
been thus torn from us was returned, and we were all very friendly
again. My companion resumed his seat, and continuing to address himself
to the host,--“be assured,” said he, “that had I been laughing at you,
my character is such that I should not have concealed the cause from
you:--we were not laughing at you; but the sort of omelet you have
dressed us reminded me of an adventure my little comrade here had to day
in an inn where he dined.” If the muleteer had been content to stop
there, I should have got well off; but I was obliged to listen
patiently, for the third time, to his relation of the history of the two
soldiers, together with my adventure, which he recited to our host with
such glee, that he seemed never to be in his element but when telling
that story.

Our host had time enough to recover his temper before this long story
was finished; and judging that he had been alarmed without cause, he
thought proper to commence playing another character, and interrupted
the muleteer every moment, while his story was telling, by--_Holy
Virgin! Great God of Heaven!_ and other such exclamations, which made
the house to ring again, and which were accompanied by the most
hypocritical grimaces. “May God punish,” said he, when the muleteer had
done speaking, “all who do not perform their duty!” As his duty was to
thieve, and he could not be accused of neglecting it, he did not appear
to consider himself at all concerned in this imprecation. After this he
continued silent for some time, walking up and down the room; but
suddenly breaking forth with a thundering voice, “How is it possible,”
cried he, “that the earth hath not yet opened itself to swallow up that
house, and the wretched woman that keeps it? I have never met with any
traveller yet but complained both of her and her provisions: not a
passenger goes out of her doors but curses her, and makes oath never to
stop at her inn again. If the officers of justice, whose duty it is to
put a stop to her practices, suffer her to go on without notice, they
know very well what they are about. Good God! in what times do we live!”

Here this honest man sighed deeply and kept silent, to give us to
understand that he thought more than he chose to say, and I was in hopes
that he would not have annoyed us any longer in this manner; but I was
much mistaken. He went on again more violently than before upon the old
woman’s knavery, in an harangue which occupied a long half hour; after
which, he finished by saying, “I return a thousand thanks to Heaven,
that I bear no resemblance to that cursed old hag, and that I am a man
of probity and honour, that I may hold up my head in any part of the
world, without fearing the least reproach from any man. Poor as I am,
nothing of that sort goes on in my house; every thing, thank God, is
here sold for what it really is, and not a cat for a hare, nor a sheep
for a lamb. Let no one give up his mind to cheating others, for he only
cheats himself in the end. He who deals ill must expect ill treatment in
return.”

Happily for the muleteer and myself, our host was obliged to stop here,
from want of breath. I took advantage of this opportunity to ask if he
had any fruit? He answered that he had got some very fine olives. During
the time that he was gone to fetch them, my comrade made an end of the
dish of calf’s brains, which I could not much relish, thinking it too
much like the andouille; but this did not prevent its being entirely
demolished. No hungry wolf ever fed more greedily than the muleteer,
whose appetite seemed never to be appeased; we had been at least an hour
at table, and his appetite seemed to continue as sharp as when we first
sat down. For my part, I relished the olives extremely, which, as well
as the wine, were excellent; as to the bread, though bad enough, it was
much better than what I had met with at dinner.

Such was our supper; and as we intended to set out early the next
morning, we desired our host to get our breakfast ready in time: we then
laid ourselves down on some straw, after having spread thereon some of
our mule furniture, to serve to cover us and keep us warm. The fatigue
of our journey, and the quantity of wine I had drank, made me sleep so
soundly, that though I was bit by the fleas that fed on me all night,
they were not able to rouse me, and I verily believe I should have slept
till the next evening, if the muleteer had not awaked me at break of
day, giving me notice that it was time to think of our departure. I was
soon ready, having only to shake off the bits of straw that were
sticking about my hair; but the fleas had left me in such a condition
that I looked like a young monster, having so disfigured my face that I
might well have been taken for one who had just recovered from the
small-pox; if I had been transported to the market-place of Seville, I
doubt whether any of my friends would have recognized me.

It being Sunday, we began the day by going to mass; after which we
returned to the inn, where my hungry companion had not forgotten to
order breakfast; it was the first thing he thought of after he was up.
“Gentlemen,” said our landlord, “I have stewed you a piece of the same
veal that you supped off last night, and I have taken great pains to
cook it to your satisfaction.” The muleteer, whose mouth watered at this
speech, placed himself at table in a trice, and commenced an attack upon
the ragout, which appeared to him as delicate as peacock’s flesh. For my
part, either because I had no appetite so early in the morning, or that
I had eaten too much supper the preceding night, I did nothing for some
time but look at him, without feeling the least inclination to follow
his example; but finding that he enjoyed it as if it were the finest
dish in the world, and fearing that I might possibly have reason to
repent at dinner of not having partaken of so good a breakfast, I made
an effort to swallow a few mouthfuls; but instead of finding them so
savoury as my companion seemed to fancy them, there was something in
them extremely disagreeable to my palate; as for the seasoning, as our
host had good reasons for being prodigal of his pepper and salt, it
seized hold of the throat, so that I was obliged to give over as soon as
I had tasted it; in addition to which, the flesh was so hard that I
could not help remarking that I thought the meat as tough as leather;
adding, that I did not consider that it had altogether the taste of
veal. “Don’t you see,” said our host, who heard what I said, and who, in
spite of his impudence, could not refrain from blushing a little, “don’t
you see,” said he, “that it has not been kept long enough to be
tender?” The muleteer, who believed what the landlord advanced, or at
least thought that I was too delicate, answered, in a jeering tone of
voice, “that is not the reason;--but our young gentleman of Seville has
always been accustomed to be fed with new laid eggs and cracknels, so
that he finds fault with every thing else.”

I contented myself by shrugging up my shoulders at this bantering of my
comrade’s, and said not a word; not knowing whether I was not actually
too dainty, or, what is more probable, beginning to feel so queer that I
almost fancied myself in the other world. I could not make up my mind to
touch this meat again, but was occupied with numerous thoughts far above
my age. I recollected the passionate behaviour of our host at our
laughter at supper the evening before; the unnecessary oaths that he
made on the occasion; and as a man undoubtedly renders himself
suspected who is anxious to justify himself before he is accused, I
considered that there must be some knavery in the business. When my
imagination was once thus prepossessed against him, the very sight and
smell of his veal ragout quite turned my stomach; so that not being able
to remain much longer, I rose from table, and waited patiently until the
muleteer did the same, which was very shortly afterwards. Although the
piece of veal was such as required a most determined assailant to get
through it, my companion appeared to have made but a slight repast of
it; after which I requested him to get the reckoning of our host, to
ascertain what each had to pay; but he answered me in an obliging
manner, that it was such a trifle that I was not to think of it, for
that he would take care to see it settled.

This generous behaviour from a man of his rank in life surprised me
extremely, or rather charmed me: had I been in different circumstances,
I could not in honour have allowed this man to pay for me; but my purse
was so low, that it did not either become or suit me to refuse his
generosity. I allowed him, therefore, without ceremony, to discharge the
reckoning, and, by way of return, I assisted him in every way in my
power in getting his mules ready for our journey. I would have done
almost any thing for him, so much was I affected by his noble behaviour
towards me.




CHAP. VII.

_The Landlord steals Guzman’s cloak.--A great uproar at the Inn._


To enable myself the better to assist my friend the muleteer in getting
his mules ready for our journey, I threw my cloak off, which I folded
up, and placed on a bench; but, about a quarter of an hour afterwards,
happening to look that way, I perceived that my cloak was no longer
there. This alarmed me at first; but I did not vex myself extremely
about it, thinking that either our host or the muleteer had concealed it
from me for the purpose of amusing themselves by observing the anxiety
it would occasion me.

I could not suspect any one else of having played me this trick, for no
other person had entered the stable, whence my cloak had been taken. I
enquired first of the muleteer, who told me that he never amused himself
in that way. I then addressed myself to our host, who instantly had
recourse to oaths to persuade me that he had no hand in the theft I
complained of. Upon that I determined to search the house for it, and
went over it from top to bottom, without forgetting the least corner in
which it might be secreted, feeling firmly convinced in my own mind that
our host was the one guilty of the theft, whose physiognomy alone
sufficiently justified my presumption.

I came at last, by chance, to a back yard, the door of which I found
some difficulty in opening, and the objects that I perceived there were
sufficient to turn my mind for some minutes from thinking of my cloak. I
observed upon the pavement a large pool of blood that had been but newly
spilt, at the side of which lay the skin of a young mule, spread out,
with the four feet still hanging to it, as well as the ears and head,
which had been opened to take out the brains and the tongue. I beheld
this sight not without horror, and said to myself, “there, there lie the
remains of our excellent veal; it is but proper that my companion should
witness this sight with his own eyes, being at least as much interested
in it as myself.” I ran to the stables where he was, and whispered to
him, that if he would accompany me I would shew him something that would
be well worth his trouble. He followed me to the back court, where I
pointed out to him the remains of the two fine repasts that we had made.
“Well, my friend,” said I, “and what do you say to all this? Do you
still think that I feed upon nothing but fresh eggs and cracknels?
Contemplate with voluptuousness this delicate calf, of which our host
made for us those ragouts which you found so savoury. You now see how
that skilful cook of your’s has regaled us.”

The good muleteer was so ashamed that he had not a word to answer. “This
is, then,” continued I, “the man of probity, who never sells cats for
hares, sheep for lambs; but who, at the same time, makes no scruple of
giving us a mule instead of a calf.” My companion, sad and pensive,
returned to the stable, and I went to look for our host, to speak to him
more stoutly, thinking that, to oblige him to restore my cloak, I had
only to apprise him that I had discovered all his villany, and to
threaten to give notice to the magistrates; for it was prohibited by an
express law, and under heavy penalties, for any person to have a mule in
his possession, the breeding of that animal being unlawful in Andalusia.
Our host had cared but little about observing this law; for having,
about eight days before, had a young mule out of an ass and a little
Gallatian mare, whom he had trusted in the same stable together, he
thought he might safely venture to pass it off upon travellers, who are
generally very hungry, for veal.

I met him at the well in the yard, washing another piece of this
supposed veal, which he endeavoured to hide as soon as he perceived me.
I came up to him with a resolute air, and desired him, in a determined
tone, to return me my cloak, or that I should immediately make my
complaint elsewhere; but at these words, which did not frighten him in
the least, he looked at me disdainfully, called me a little jackanapes,
and threatened to whip me.

The loss of my cloak had not provoked me so much as this behaviour of
his; so that giving myself up to my resentment, without considering the
inequality of our strength, I answered, that he was nothing but a thief
and a knave, and that I dared him to touch me. He appeared stung by my
answer, and made up to me, as if to put his threat in execution; but
without waiting for this giant (for he was one in comparison with
myself), I took up a large stone, and threw it at his head, but
fortunately for him it only just grazed one of his ears. Instead,
however, of closing with me, and crushing me with the weight of his
body, he ran to his chamber, whence he returned in an instant with a
long naked sword in his hand. Far from flying before this bravo, I began
to reproach him in the most abusive terms, upbraiding him as a coward
and poltroon, for not being ashamed to make use of a sword against a
young boy, who had no other weapon than a stone to defend himself with.

All the servants ran out to see what was the matter, and were not a
little frightened to see their master with a drawn sword in his hand. My
comrade, who bore a spite against the scoundrel for the abominable
ragout that he had been made to eat, came up to my assistance with a
pitchfork; so that (the muleteer and I, of the one part, the host, his
wife, children, and servants, of the other) we made such an uproar
between us, that any one passing must have thought there was some
desperate work going forward in the inn. All the neighbours were
alarmed, and came to the house, where they knocked at the door, but,
not waiting for its being opened from within, they broke it open, that
they might the sooner ascertain the cause of the horrid tumult they
heard: then entered a troop of the police, with numerous armed
attendants, and the alcaids; for, on account of the wickedness of the
inhabitants, there were two alcaids in this town of Cantillana.

These two alcaids had no sooner got into the house, with their
followers, than each of them pretended that the cognizance of this
affair belonged to him alone, which formed two parties. The armed
attendants were also divided according to their different interests, and
their division excited a furious dispute amongst them. As the quarrel
grew worse, the noise grew louder, till at last no one could hear
himself speak; the two parties grew so warm, that they no longer
scrupled to betray each other’s feelings, but allowed the most
unpleasing truths to escape them. From these revilings they would
probably have proceeded to blows, if some honest inhabitants of the
town, who had entered the inn at the same time with them, had not
interfered and reconciled them; which being accomplished, God knows how,
nothing remained but to ascertain the cause of our quarrel, and as a
cord always breaks first where it is weakest, they began by seizing
hold of me. I was a stranger, without favour, and without
acquaintance--JUSTICE, therefore, could not fail to begin with me.

Let me, however, give these alcaids their due; for they certainly did
not send me to prison without a hearing. I related to them in a simple
manner the subject of my dispute with our host respecting my cloak; then
taking them apart, I added the story of the mule, informing them, that
they would still find that animal’s skin in the back court, and some
pieces stewing in the kitchen. Upon this last article of my deposition,
my judges forgot all about my cloak, and repaired to the back court,
after having, by way of precaution, seized our host, who did nothing but
laugh, thinking that it was all about the cloak, which no one had seen
him take; but when the mule’s hide and other appurtenances were brought
forward in judgment against him, he became in an instant as pale as a
condemned criminal, and during his examination, confessed even more than
he was accused of; unluckily for me, however, my cloak was the only
subject on which he remained firm; the rascal, from a spirit of revenge,
would not confess he had stolen it.

The alcaids sent this rogue to prison, which gave me some pleasure in
the midst of my troubles; I say in the midst, for I had not yet got over
them. The alcaids’ clerks, a sort of people quite as humane as they are
disinterested, thinking that I was of a good family, and might have a
rich father, recommended the alcaids, in the most christian manner, to
detain me also at all chances. This advice, which was much approved of
by my judges, would certainly have been followed, had not the citizens
who were present opposed so great an injustice, by saying aloud, that if
that were done, I should be punished merely for having done my duty. The
murmurs of these honest men prevailed for this once over the good will
of the officers of justice, who pardoned me through policy.

The muleteer, who had been witness to all that had passed, and was not a
little apprehensive that they would seize his mules and him, whispered
me to leave, as quickly as I was able, this blessed part of the country,
where a man need not think himself badly off if he escaped with the loss
of his cloak only. I approved of his advice; we mounted our beasts in
haste, and rode out of the inn-yard.




CHAP. VIII.

_Guzman and the Muleteer meet with another misfortune._


We were so anxious to get clear of the city, that at our setting out we
spurred on our mules, which was almost unnecessary, for they seemed as
impatient as ourselves, and to have taken an equal aversion to the inn,
fearing perhaps lest they should leave their skins there behind them;
but when we had got a little way into the country, we slackened our pace
again, both keeping a profound silence, and each occupied by his own
thoughts. It was a fine treat to observe the countenance of my friend
the muleteer; all desire for laughing had entirely forsaken him since I
had pointed out to him the remains of the mule, and he dared not
venture to jeer me on our admirable repast, fearing the repartees that I
might have made, as he had eaten at least six times the quantity that I
had, both of the andouille and the brains, and the whole of the
morning’s ragout was still on his stomach; so that, had he thought
proper to rally me again, which, by the bye, was very far from his
thoughts, I could have easily silenced him.

If my companion had cause for disagreeable reflections, I was not more
satisfied with the images that presented themselves to my imagination.
“O Heavens!” said I, “what unlucky star prevailed on me to quit my
mother’s house; no sooner had I left it than every thing became contrary
with me; one misfortune has only been the presage of another: the first
night I was forced to lie down to sleep at a chapel-door, and that
without supper; the next day I had nothing but a chick omelet for
dinner, and in the evening was regaled with several ragouts made of a
mule travestied into veal; at night I was devoured by fleas, which
happily I was not aware of; and to day I had like to have fared equally
well, and what is worse, have lost my cloak; nothing was wanting to
complete my misfortune but that I should have been sent to prison in
company with the man who stole it, and it was not the fault of my judges
that was not the case.”

Whenever I thought of this theft I sighed bitterly, for this loss
afflicted me more than all the other unfortunate occurrences; in fact, I
had more reason to regret it: the stomach may recover itself from the
effects of a bad meal, and an uneasy night may be made amends for by the
following one; but how was the loss of a cloak to be repaired, with so
little money as I had in my pocket? Nevertheless, the evil being without
remedy, I resolved to bear it patiently. I had heard it said, that the
life of man is a compound of happiness and misery, of pleasure and
pain; “if so,” said I, “be comforted, friend Guzman, for you are
assuredly on the brink of some good fortune, since you have as yet met
with nothing but mischances since your departure from Seville.”

Buoyed up by this flattering hope, I was just beginning to recover
myself, when I perceived two men upon mules, who had very much the
appearance of what they really were, riding up at a quick trot behind
us, who having come up to us, examined us attentively, as if they were
looking for some one who very much resembled me. Their very looks were
enough to make me uneasy; the holy Brotherhood, of which they had the
honour to be members, probably had not any among them of a more terrific
appearance. They looked earnestly at me, and as I appeared rather
surprised, and even a little alarmed, they leapt from their mules
without wanting any further proof, and falling upon me both together,
they threw me from my mule to the ground, then seizing me by the arm,
one of them said, “Ah! Mr. Rogue, have we caught you at last? come,
little wretch, give up the money; give up the jewels that you have
stolen, or we will immediately hang you up on the tree that you see a
few paces off.” At these words, they set to and pulled and cuffed me
about so unmercifully that it was in vain for me to attempt to defend
myself.

The good-natured muleteer, touched with compassion to see me so cruelly
treated, represented to them that they were certainly mistaken in me;
but he was but ill-paid for his remonstrance, for they turned upon him,
and when they were tired of thumping him, accused him of being the
receiver of the goods I had stolen, and seized both him and his mules,
asking him how he had disposed of the money and jewels; and as he could
answer them in no other manner than that he was entirely ignorant of
what money and jewels they alluded to, a fresh shower of blows fell upon
him without mercy. I must confess here my bad disposition; I could not
help feeling a malignant satisfaction in seeing this poor devil, upon
whom I had brought this ill-luck, so unmercifully banged; for it was to
him that I attributed the loss of my cloak, and our infernal repast at
supper. After having well pummelled us both, they rummaged out our
pockets, and searched us carefully; and not finding what they were in
search of, they bound our hands with cords, designing to conduct us in
this state to Seville. We were already leashed together like greyhounds,
when one of the constables who had bound my hands, said with surprise to
his companion: “God forgive me, comrade, but I think that we have been
too precipitate, and are deceived; the fellow that we are in pursuit of
has no thumb on his left hand, and this chap has all his fingers
perfect.” The constable hearing this, drew forth his instructions, and
read them aloud. The thief was there described in a manner very
different from my appearance; for besides that he wanted a thumb, it was
there stated that he was nineteen or twenty years of age, and had long
black hair falling over his back like a horse’s tail; instead of which,
no one could take me to be more than fourteen, and my hair was very
short, of a reddish colour, and much curled. Finding, therefore, that
they had made a mistake, they unbound us, and taking possession of a few
reals, by way of fee, which the muleteer had in his pocket, they
apologized to us by laughing in our faces, and remounted their mules,
leaving us all covered with bruises, particularly my friend the
muleteer, whose thick built, robust shoulders, had been less spared than
mine. To make amends, my mouth was full of blood, and almost all my
teeth loosened by the several fisty-cuffs I had received.

This did not prevent us, however, from getting upon our mules again, and
continuing our route; but in as sorrowful a plight as any one would have
done on such an occasion. When we had got within a quarter of a league
from the village del Pédoro, we perceived and soon joined the two
friars, who were walking on slowly, waiting till we came up.

I related to them the cause of our delay; for the muleteer was in such a
condition that he had not courage to speak a word. These good men much
pitied us: the last adventure appeared to them the most distressing, and
one of these gentlemen took occasion to say: “God keep every honest man
from three _Holies_ that are at this time in Spain; viz. _the holy
Inquisition, the holy Brotherhood, and the holy Crusado_. Especially, if
he be innocent, God keep him from the _holy Brotherhood_: there may be
some hope of justice with the two others, but all that can be said in
favour of this latter is, happy are they who do not fall into its
hands.”

The friar who had treated me with a sermon the day before, and who was
quite upon the itch to be preaching again, managed to turn the
conversation upon the vanities of the world, that he might take the
opportunity of informing us we could look for none but false pleasures
in this world, and that true pleasure is in heaven, where only it is to
be found; that even such diversions as promise the greatest possible
pleasure, are sure to be either accompanied or followed by some
mortification or other. “Have you any objection,” added he, addressing
himself to his comrade, “that I should relate to you a fable on this
subject, which I think well worthy to be listened to? you will not be
sorry to hear it.” At the same time, without waiting for his
companion’s answer, he began in these words.

“Jupiter, not content with having created all things on earth for man,
through an excess of love for them, sent the God of Pleasure, in early
times, to reside here below, solely to make them joyful. But man, and
more especially woman, attaching themselves to this new deity, whose
attractions completely charmed them, resolved to look up to him only as
their divinity; they believed that he was able to gratify all their
wishes: thus, thinking that they could dispense with all the other Gods
in Heaven, they began to forget them: no prayers, sacrifices, or
victims, were offered up to any but the God of Pleasure. Jupiter, being
the one most offended, felt this ingratitude of his creatures so
sensibly, that he considered he ought to avenge himself on them, and
called a council of the immortals to consult with them, fearing that he
might be accused of having listened to nothing but his anger.

“All the Gods condemned this behaviour of man more or less, according to
the sentiments that each entertained for them: the most good-natured
amongst them represented to Jupiter that men were but men, that is to
say, weak and faulty creatures, from whom he could expect nothing but
imprudence and indiscretion; that, in their opinion, the Father of
Heaven, instead of viewing their weakness with severity, ought rather to
have pity on them than think of punishing them. Were we men, as they
are, added they, we might conduct ourselves in the same manner, perhaps
even worse; besides, consider what God it is that you have given them?
see in what manner he uses them; he never leaves them, he flatters their
desires, and enchants them with his seducing manners. You, on the
contrary, are seen by them but seldom, and almost always with thunder
in your hand, which frightens them; you ought not, therefore, to be
surprised if they fear you more than they love you; they may hereafter,
perhaps, reflect seriously upon their fault, and make atonement, as soon
as they are informed how much their blind attachment to this divinity,
has caused them to wrong the immortals, and particularly yourself.

“When the Gods, thus peaceably inclined, had thus remonstrated with
Jupiter, Momus, who hated man, wished to give advice directly opposite;
but he began in such free terms, that he was silenced, and told that he
should be heard in his turn. The other Gods who were not better inclined
towards the human race than Momus, did all they could to persuade the
son of Saturn to extirpate mankind, alleging, that they were useless
beings, for whom the Gods had no manner of occasion. Others, not so
violent, thinking they gave admirable advice, recommended Jupiter to
reduce such as had been culpable into dust again, and create others more
perfect in their place, which would be an easy matter for him to do;
upon which Apollo requested permission to speak, and, with that air of
sweetness which has ever been attributed to him, addressed himself to
the Father of the Gods in these words.

“‘Supreme Jupiter, full of love and goodness, thou art so justly
irritated against man, that whatever cruel revenge you may be disposed
to take on him, no inhabitant of Olympus will pretend to oppose thy
will; it being not less the interest of all the Gods in general, than
thine in particular, that mortals should not prove ungrateful for the
favours and benefits they daily receive at our hands. Suffer me,
however, to make it appear to you that if thou destroyest man, thou
destroyest thine own work. This world, which thou hast created and
embellished with a thousand wonderful things which thou hast bestowed
upon it, will be no longer of any use, for we shall not any of us leave
Heaven to reside there. If thou destroyest man to make a new race, that
will do thee no honour, for it will rather be said that thou couldst not
make thy work perfect in less than two trials: suffer, therefore, the
human race to remain as it is; for it greatly concerns thy glory to
maintain what thou hast created. Perhaps I may go so far as to say, that
I do not think it would be to the honour of the Gods if men were without
imperfection; if they were not weak and full of wants, what occasion
would they have for our assistance?

“‘Nevertheless,’ continued he, ‘these ingrates ought to be punished;
thou hast given them the God Pleasure, to whom they are too much
attached; thou hast only, therefore, to oblige them to give up the idol,
and send them down his brother in his room: thus thou wilt chastise
them by the same means as they have offended thee; they will, I am
convinced, soon acknowledge their fault, and have recourse to thy mercy
to pardon their blindness; thou wilt then be fully avenged, and thou
canst either forgive them or abandon them to the tyranny of their new
divinity. This, great Jupiter! is what seems to me most becoming thy
glory on this occasion; but the Lord of Heaven and Earth knows best what
is fit to be done.’

“Apollo ceased to speak, and Momus, who was prepared with a discourse
which his hatred for man had suggested, began to aggravate their
offence; but he was but the dupe of his ill-will; all the other
Immortals, who well knew his prejudice, rejected his advice, and agreed
in opinion with Apollo. Agreeably to the decision of the celestial
assembly, Mercury cut through the air in a moment, and descended upon
earth, where he found man completely busied and charmed with the God
Pleasure. No sooner did he begin to put in execution his orders to
deprive them of him, than a general insurrection took place among the
women as well as the men. Such fury was never known before; they ranged
themselves round about their cherished deity, protesting they would
rather die than be deprived of him.

“Mercury returned quickly up to Heaven, to inform Jupiter of this
disorder, whose wrath towards man was increased by this intelligence;
but Apollo, who always favoured them, interceded once more in their
behalf so effectually, that he prevented the thunder from being hurled
upon them. ‘Lord of Olympus,’ said he, ‘have pity on these poor weak
creatures, and, instead of suffering your thunder to fall upon them,
allow me to propose a milder method of bringing them to their senses:
let us deceive them by a skilful trick, by withdrawing from them the
God of Pleasure without their perceiving it, and placing under the same
shape the God Dissatisfaction in his stead.’

“This stratagem was approved of, and Apollo himself undertook the
execution of it. He descended upon earth with the God Dissatisfaction
disguised, and found men and women all up in arms to protect their idol,
whom they had placed in the midst of them; he dazzled their eyes and
easily made the intended exchange; after which, he returned to the
Immortals again, to enjoy with them the trick that he had just played
upon mankind, who from that time, believing themselves still to have
Pleasure among them, have sacrificed to his brother, without knowing it,
in his place.”

This fable was much applauded by the bachelor, who agreed with his
friend who had related it, that assuredly the pleasures of life seduce
us by fine appearances, without there being any reality to be found in
them. “Alas!” thought I to myself, while the gentlemen were thus
reasoning, “that is but too true. When I first took it into my head to
travel, I formed a most delightful idea of my journey, and flattered my
imagination with a thousand agreeable fancies, the fallacy of which I am
already but too well acquainted with.” After the friars had moralized
for a considerable time upon this subject, the bachelor said to his
companion, “To enliven the conversation a little, and to amuse us on the
road, I purpose, with your permission, to relate you a story, which is
to be found in the history of our wars with the Moors.” The other friar
appeared curious to hear it, and, as well as I can remember, the
bachelor recited it nearly in the following words.




CHAP. IX.

_The Amour of Ozmin and the beautiful Daraxa._


Whilst their Catholic Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella were at the siege
of Baza, the Moors kept the Christians in full employment, and prodigies
of valour were performed on both sides. The place was well situated and
in good condition, and was defended by a garrison composed of the
choicest troops of the King of Granada. Mahomet, surnamed El
Chiquito--the diminutive--the governor, was a man skilful and
experienced in war. Isabella was at Jaen, where she took care to supply
the Christian troops, which Ferdinand commanded in person, with
provisions. The army was divided into two bodies, one of which besieged
the town, while the other covered the siege.

As the Moors had spared nothing to prevent the possibility of
communication between the two camps, scarcely a day passed without some
furious skirmish. On one of these occasions the besieged fought so
desperately that they would have decisively defeated their besiegers if
any valour could have made it possible; but the latter, animated by the
presence and example of their king, and reinforced by frequent succours,
obliged the Infidels at length to take flight, and pursued them so
closely that they entered with them pell-mell into the suburbs of Baza.

The governor would not have failed to take advantage of this indiscreet
ardour of the Christians had his troops been sufficient to support him
in a vigorous sally; but finding his garrison too much weakened to
undertake such an enterprize, he prudently contented himself with
firing on the enemy from the walls, that they might not effect a
lodgment in the suburbs; he then caused the gates of the town to be
closed, fearing lest it should be carried by assault. In vain was he
informed that his only daughter had unfortunately left the town to take
the air in a garden in the suburbs, and that it was much feared she had
fallen into the hands of the Christians; he answered like the Roman
Consul, that he had rather lose his daughter than a fortress which the
king had confided to his defence.

Among the noblemen in the Christian army who entered the suburbs with
the Moors, Don Alonso de Zuniga was one who had particularly signalized
himself. This cavalier, who was about eighteen years of age, was now
making his first campaign; his aim was glory, and his only object in
coming to the siege of Baza was to deserve the esteem of Ferdinand by
the performance of some remarkable feat. Fortune favoured his wishes,
for while in pursuit of the enemy, putting all who offered resistance to
the sword, he approached a magnificent looking house, which appeared to
belong to some person of quality. Resolved to ascertain whether there
was any one within, he caused the door to be forced open with his
soldiers’ axes. About a dozen men, armed with sabres only, presented
themselves to dispute their entrance; but four or five of these being
overthrown damped the courage of the rest, who saved themselves by
flight over the walls of the garden.

Don Alonso’s soldiers, delighted to find a house elegantly furnished,
thought of nothing but plundering it; for himself, who wished for
nothing but an opportunity of signalizing himself, he examined the house
from top to bottom, sword in hand, with five or six of his followers,
breaking open every door, to see if there were any other Moors prepared
to oppose him. Passing thus from room to room, he at length came to the
last, at the door of which he heard a loud shriek from within, and at
the same time perceived five women, four of whom, all in tears, and
almost senseless with fear, threw themselves at his feet, imploring him
to save their honour and their lives; but the fifth, who by her air and
majestic appearance was evidently the mistress of the rest, instead of
kneeling with the others, held a poniard in her hand with a determined
countenance. “Stop!” said she, in the Castilian language, upon Don
Alonso’s approaching her, “this dagger shall protect me from any one who
presumes to touch me.”

No sooner did Don Alonso behold the face of the lady who addressed him
in these courageous terms, than he was quite captivated by her beauty,
and felt the emotions that love creates in a heart for the first time
subjected to its dominion: already enraptured by his rising passion, he
raised the visor of his helmet, sheathed his sword, and told the lady,
in the most mild and respectful manner, that she need not be
apprehensive of any violence from one who felt extremely concerned at
the alarm he had caused her, but at the same time he felt most truly
happy that fate had conducted him into her presence, to save her from
the misfortunes that threatened her; he entreated her, therefore, to
confide herself to his protection, and to accompany him at once, for
fear of the fury of the soldiers, who, not being accustomed on such
occasions as these to acknowledge any controul, might put it out of his
power to preserve her from their outrages.

At these words, the truth of which she but too well felt, she accepted
his proffered assistance; upon which he desired his followers to take
care of the other women, and let them carry away with them whatever
they wished; after which he offered his hand to his captive, who, in
spite of her uneasiness, was somewhat divested of her fears by the
attention and appearance of the young cavalier; armed as he was, to
behold his beautiful face, and his long hair which flowed in curls over
his cuirass, he had more the appearance of a beautiful girl than of a
soldier.

This charming Moor, who, without exception, was the most engaging beauty
in the kingdom of Granada, was named Daraxa; she was the daughter of the
governor; and having learnt that the Moors had been driven back into the
suburbs, she had endeavoured to regain the town, but finding the gates
closed, had been obliged to return to this garden.

Though she was very fortunate in having fallen into the hands of Don
Alonso, yet the thoughts of becoming a captive to the Christians sadly
afflicted her. In spite of her courage she could not refrain from tears;
she was not able to make any other reply to the obliging offers of her
generous enemy than by giving him her hand, to shew the confidence she
reposed in him. The young warrior, moved by the tears of his fair
prisoner, tried all he could to console her; and as he spoke from the
abundance of his heart, what he said was so tenderly expressive, that in
any other situation it might have had more effect on the beautiful Moor;
but, although she felt most sensibly his endeavours to sooth her under
her misfortune, the acknowledgments that she made were but very
inadequate as a return for the lively interest he took in her behalf.

As soon as he was informed that a retreat was sounded by order of the
king, and that the Christians were already filing off to regain the
camp, he yielded his own horse to the lady, who vaulted into the saddle
entirely unassisted, and knew well how to manage her steed. He then
assembled his soldiers in haste, in the midst of whom he placed the
beautiful Moor and her women; and putting himself at the head of this
little corps, which looked more like a cavalcade than an escort, he
followed the other troops in the retreat.

The king was already acquainted with his adventure before he arrived at
the camp, and was the more rejoiced at it as he entertained a particular
regard for this cavalier, whom he considered to be a young man of great
promise. Impatient to see so illustrious a prisoner, he did her the
honour to advance to receive her, as soon as he perceived Don Alonso
approaching his tent to conduct her into his presence. She advanced
towards his Majesty with so majestic a mien, and so gracefully, as to
charm all who beheld her; and would have fallen on her knees before him,
but he prevented her so politely, and received her in such a manner,
that she uttered, in a sort of extasy, “Ah! my lord, what charms would
the honour of saluting the great Ferdinand have had, had it not been
annexed by fate to one of the most cruel misfortunes that could have
happened to me!” “Madam,” answered the King, in a most gracious manner,
“you have no reason to consider it a misfortune to have become the
prisoner of Don Alonso de Zuniga, who is an amiable young man, and who
will pay you every attention, and spare nothing which may alleviate your
misfortune; and, for my own part, I will take care you shall be so well
entertained that you shall soon cease to have occasion to repine at
fortune.”

His Majesty added, that she might write to her father the Governor,
assuring him she should meet with the treatment due to her birth. He
then desired Don Alonso, with a smile, to continue to take good care of
Daraxa. “Conduct her,” said he, “to my own tent, where she can rest
this night with her women, and to-morrow you shall yourself escort her
to Jaen, where she will be better received and entertained by the Queen
than she can be in a camp.”

Those officers in the army who had seen the beautiful Moor spoke of her
to the others in such high terms that they were all curious to see her,
and applied to Zuniga, to whom she was confided, to gratify their
curiosity; but Don Alonso, jealous of his happiness, would not grant
their requests, but managed to keep them from the royal tent by all
sorts of excuses; for they persecuted him in such a manner, to afford
them this satisfaction, that he was much troubled to resist their
importunities. The next morning, according to the King’s orders, he set
out for Jaen, where he arrived in the evening with his charming captive,
whom he presented to the Queen. Her Majesty, to whom the King had
dispatched a courier the preceding evening, was already informed of
every thing. She received Daraxa most graciously, and was extremely
pleased to see her. She was particularly struck with the elegance of her
appearance; and when she had conversed with her for some time, was
convinced that her good sense and wit were at least equal to her beauty.

In the mean time, Don Alonso, having performed his commission, and being
obliged to return to the army, found now for the first time, that if
love has its sweets, it is not unaccompanied by chagrin; and that that
deity makes us pay dearly for the least favor. He could not reflect
without extreme pain that he was on the point of leaving his beautiful
Moor; but what most afflicted him was, that he had not yet disclosed his
sentiments to her, though he had had more than one favourable
opportunity; either from a timidity, which the bravest lovers sometimes
feel, or from want of experience, he had resolved to take no other mode
of declaring his passion than by his actions; nevertheless, as he knew
that men ought to speak first on such occasions, he made up his mind at
length to declare himself. He had only now to think of the manner in
which he should make this avowal; and having reflected for a long time
on the subject, but not being content with any thing he could think of,
he resolved to leave it entirely to his passion to inspire him with
words.

With this intention he repaired to the Queen to receive her commands,
and asked permission to take leave of Daraxa. The Queen, who well knew
that this young lord could not have passed two days with so lovely a
person as the beautiful Moor with impunity, wished to have the pleasure
of witnessing their separation: “What you desire is reasonable,” said
she to Don Alonso, “since Daraxa is your prisoner; but as she is under
my protection, I must watch over all her actions; you can only converse
with her, therefore, in my presence.” This embarrassed him, and he now
almost despaired of being able to acquaint his captive, that in leaving
her he quitted what was dearest in the world to him.

What he viewed as so great an obstacle to the accomplishment of his
desires, served, however, to promote them. The Queen having sent for the
beautiful Moor, said to her: “My daughter,” (for so she already called
her from friendship) “behold a young warrior, who I fear is more to be
pitied, and more a prisoner than you are; he has considered it a duty to
take leave of his captive previous to his departure for the army; I am
his friend, and I permit him to disclose, in my presence, the tender
sentiments that he cannot but have conceived for you.” Daraxa blushed:
she had been till now so much taken up with her own misfortunes, that
she had not once thought of endeavouring to distinguish the motives of
Don Alonso’s actions, or if she had observed any attention more than
ordinary in his behaviour, she had attributed it solely to pity, which
is never without a degree of tenderness: besides which, her heart was
already prepossessed in favor of another, so that she could but look
upon Zuniga with an indifferent eye.

She replied to the Queen: That she should never forget her obligations
to that cavalier; and that not having it in her power to acknowledge
them, otherwise than by her wishes, she hoped that it would not be his
fate to be taken prisoner; or should he be so unfortunate, she trusted
that he would meet with as kind treatment as she had experienced. The
Queen, curious to hear what answer Don Alonso would make to this
compliment, made no reply, to afford him an opportunity of speaking. But
this young nobleman, whose quick repartees, on other occasions, had
been much admired at Court, now stood confused, either because he felt
too violently the emotions of love, or under restraint in the presence
of the Queen. He replied only to Daraxa, that whatever misfortunes might
befal him, he should consider himself but too happy under them, if he
might presume to call himself her champion, and that the object of his
visit was to solicit this honor. “This is a favor never refused in this
country,” said the Queen, desirous of keeping up the conversation to
gratify Zuniga, “and Daraxa will surely find more reasons than one for
granting this request.” “Madam,” answered the beautiful Moor, “I should
be well content to have for my champion a man of Don Alonso’s high birth
and accomplishments; but if the laws of Chivalry are the same among the
Christians as with us Moors, how can I thus strongly interest myself in
favor of a warrior who hears arms against my country?”

Although the Queen felt the force of this reply, she did not therefore
conclude here, but represented to her fair prisoner, that this was a
particular case; that she need have no scruple in feeling an interest
and participating in the glory and fortune of a cavalier, to whom she
was under such obligations as would be more than a sufficient excuse for
her; and that she would thereby engage Don Alonso to treat the Moors
that might fall into his power, more kindly. Zuniga was overjoyed to
find the Queen espouse his cause with so much earnestness: and Daraxa,
fearing that she might betray herself if she persisted in refusing the
Queen’s request, thought it more advisable to make no further answer,
since silence might imply that she did not object to what was desired of
her.

“This will not suffice,” continued the Queen, who was determined to
finish the matter, “for when any lady amongst us makes choice of a
particular champion, it is usual to bestow on him some token of her
preference, such as a scarf, her portrait, a handkerchief, a ribbon, or
the like.” This was likewise a custom among the Moors; but Daraxa did
not wish to engage herself so far; as, however, the desires of the Queen
were laws to her, she presented Don Alonso with a knot of ribbon which
she wore on her head, interwoven in the Moorish fashion. Zuniga received
this gift with bended knees, and kissing the hand that bestowed it, as
lovers were wont to do in those days, he swore never to do any thing to
render himself unworthy his mistress’ favor. After this ceremony, the
Queen, who was exceedingly pleased at the sight, told Don Alonso that
she doubted not he would soon signalize himself by such feats of arms as
would evince that he was well deserving of the honor that had just been
conferred on him. He answered that he must be dependant on Fortune to
furnish him with opportunities, and that it should not be the fault of
his heart if he neglected them, or if they terminated unfortunately for
him.

After having thus spoken, he returned her Majesty thanks for all her
kindness; then addressing himself to the beautiful Moor, he implored her
to deign sometimes to bestow a thought on a cavalier whose only glory
was to serve his Catholic Majesty, and to render himself worthy of her
esteem. After this he departed for the army.

Upon his arrival at the camp, he learned that king Ferdinand and king
Mahomet had had an interview, that Baza had capitulated, and that it was
stipulated in the articles, that all prisoners made during the siege
should be restored on both sides. This news afflicted the amorous Don
Alonso, who from that moment believed himself debarred from the sight of
the object of his affection: but the Queen, who appeared to have
undertaken to complete the happiness of this cavalier, could not make up
her mind to think of ever parting with Daraxa, for whom she had
conceived so sincere a friendship, that she could scarcely have lived
without her company. The Moorish Governor, her father, applied for her
return in the most urgent manner, but the Queen wrote to him in such
kind and pressing terms, requesting him to allow his daughter to remain
with her, that notwithstanding the excess of his love for her, he could
not refuse to grant such a request, well persuaded that he should not
have reason to repent of his complaisance.

The campaign being thus ended, the King resolved to pass the winter at
Seville. He wrote to the Queen to this effect, who accordingly repaired
there two or three days before he arrived. Never had the court of that
monarch been more magnificent, the lords endeavoured to eclipse each
other in splendour, and no expence was spared to make a brilliant
figure. Don Alonso, who was one of the richest amongst them, and whose
absence had only served to increase his love, spared nothing to make his
equipage and train worthy of the _Champion of the beautiful Moor_, which
title he had given himself, and upon which he much prided himself at
Court, and the knot of ribbon he had received from that lady was
elegantly attached to his breast.

All this, however, signified little with Daraxa, who treated him with
the same indifference as the other lords who had professed themselves
her lovers, among whom were Don Roderigo de Padilla, Don Juan d’Alsenna,
and Don Diego de Castro. The only advantage that Don Alonso had over his
rivals was, that he was permitted to visit and converse with his
mistress more frequently than the others; for which he was indebted to
the Queen’s kindness, who, ardently wishing to make the fair Moor a
Christian, that she might marry and retain her at Court, had fixed upon
him as the most advantageous match for her.

The Queen tried every means to prevail upon her to change her religion.
One day she said to her: “My dear Daraxa, I have a great curiosity and
wish to see you dressed in a Spanish habit; as I think that dress will
become your beauty better than your own, and as I will make you a
present of one I have myself worn, I am sure you will try it on to
oblige me.” The Queen hoped by this means to influence her mind by
degrees. Daraxa, who was well pleased with the dress of the Spanish
women, and rejoiced at being able to please her Majesty, willingly
consented to afford her that satisfaction. When she first made her
appearance in her new dress, the King and the whole Court were
delighted, and she completely eclipsed the numerous beauties that had
hitherto charmed them. What jealousies and infidelities did she not
cause! For, in proportion as she pleased the men, she became the envy of
the women, who of course discovered more imperfections than charms in
her.

Although she was not unconscious of the envy that she occasioned, she
was rather vexed at it than conceited, and even became careless in her
dress. The Queen sometimes quarrelled with her on this subject, and sent
her daily new ornaments to prevail upon her to take more pains with her
person; but she dressed herself once or twice with these, and thought of
them no more. Every one was surprised to observe that she was plunged in
a profound melancholy, which nothing could dispel. She sought to be
alone, and was often surprised in tears, the report of which much
affected the Queen, who, however, considered that she was only unhappy
at being so far from her relations, and that her sadness would soon be
at an end.

The King, wishing to contribute towards diverting his illustrious
prisoner, as well as the numerous officers who had served under him so
ably in the late campaign, proposed a solemn bull-fight, and the sports
of canes, in some places called carousals: the day fixed on for these
amusements was proclaimed, that such cavaliers as chose might prepare
for them.

It is now time that I should inform you of the cause of the melancholy
of the beautiful Moor; she was enamoured of a young nobleman of Granada,
who was descended, as she herself was, from Moorish kings, and whose
valour had been proved on several occasions; he was possessed of the
most amiable personal qualities; in short, he was one of the most
accomplished cavaliers at the Court of Granada. His name was Ozmin. They
had been attached to each other from their infancy, and their fathers,
who were most intimate friends, had resolved to preserve their amity
indissoluble by marriage. On the eve of these nuptials, when Ozmin, who
was at Granada, was expected at Baza to celebrate them, Ferdinand
suddenly besieged this place with so much secresy and precaution, that
there was not the slightest suspicion of it at the Court of king
Mahomet.

Upon hearing this news, so important to the Moors, Ozmin, incited by
love and glory, undertook to enter Baza, where he was expected, at the
head of two hundred men, who, for the most part, consisted of such of
his friends and dependants as were willing to follow his fortune, and
serve their king. They met with two parties in less than three hours,
and defeated them; but a third party, consisting of six hundred men,
fell upon them within half a league of the town, calling to them to
surrender, if they expected quarter. Ozmin, not alarmed at the
inequality of numbers, formed his men into a squadron, placing his
wounded in the centre; then rushing on the enemy in as vigorous a manner
as if he had not met with the two former detachments, he kept the
victory doubtful during two hours; already more than half on the side of
the Christians were disabled, and the rest so disordered as to be almost
ready for flight, when a reinforcement of two hundred men came in very
a-propos to their relief. This completely turned the scale, and Ozmin,
wounded in three several parts, thought now of nothing but to save the
rest of his men by retreating: which he did in so good order, and with
such fortunate stands, that the Christians soon thought fit to give over
their pursuit of them. He got back to Granada with a hundred and ten
men, of whom twelve only were not wounded.

This skirmish was accounted one of the most valiant exploits that had
been ever known, and the name of Ozmin became famous among the Christian
troops. Having got home he was obliged to confine himself to his bed.
King Mahomet, his kinsman, delighted by the glory that he had acquired
by so brilliant an action, was not content with bestowing his praise
upon him, but did him the honour of a visit, as a proof of the high
sense he entertained of his valour; but what completed his joy, was a
letter he received from his dear Daraxa, wherein she desired him to pay
more regard to his wounds than to the honour they obtained him; that she
valued the lover in him more than the hero; and concluded by exhorting
him to take more care of himself for the future. With this letter she
sent him a large handkerchief, embroidered after the Moorish manner, of
her own work, which was the more gratifying to her lover, as it was the
first present she had hitherto made him.

The brave Ozmin was extremely impatient to be cured of his wounds, in
order to make a second attempt to get into Baza, for he could no longer
exist without the company of his future wife. The Governor of the place
having notice of his design, found means to caution him against making a
second attempt by force of arms, the passes being too well guarded to
afford any hopes of success; he advised him to dress himself in a
Spanish habit, and set out on a particular night, which they would agree
on between them, so as to arrive the next morning at break of day near
to Baza, which he might thence enter, under shelter of a sally that
should be made expressly for that purpose. The Governor sent him these
letters, and received his answers to them, by a faithful servant of
Ozmin’s, whose name was Orviedo, who having been fourteen years a
prisoner among the Christians, knew their manners and spoke their
language so well, that he might well have passed for a Spaniard; in
addition to this, he was a sharp and cunning fellow, and was well
acquainted with the roads.

As soon as Ozmin was sufficiently recovered to put this project in
execution, he set out for Granada on the night appointed, followed by
Orviedo only, both disguised in Spanish dresses; though they were well
mounted, they were obliged to take so many out-of-the-way roads to avoid
the Christian parties, and guarded passes, that day had already appeared
before they arrived within a league of Baza. As they advanced, they
observed clouds of dust, and soon perceived the Christian troops so much
in motion on all sides, that they felt well assured there would be a
very decisive action that day; it was, in fact, the very day on which
Don Alonso carried off the beautiful Moor. Our two travellers entered
into a wood, where they came to a stand, fearing lest they should
precipitate themselves into some inextricable difficulty; and Orviedo,
as a warrior used to find expedients suitable to such conjunctures,
said to his master: “My Lord, if you will take my advice, you will
remain here in concealment, while I go forward alone and on foot to
reconnoitre the motions of the Christians, and use every art to get into
the town and acquaint the Governor where you are staying: if I do not
rejoin you in two hours, you may take it for granted I have got into the
town, and that every thing shall be prepared to receive you.”

Ozmin approved of this advice, and Orviedo, having tied his horse to a
tree, walked on towards Baza: his master, in spite of the violent
feelings which agitated him, waited patiently for above two hours; after
which, considering that it was time to advance towards the town, and
that according to what Orviedo had said, he should meet with people
ready to second his intentions, he pushed on by the shortest road, until
he arrived within a quarter of a league of the town; when on a sudden
he discovered a troop of Moors riding up to him at full speed; he
thought that this was the sally made in his favor, but he was quickly
and not very agreeably undeceived. As they took him for a Christian,
from his Andalusian habit, they fired upon him, and would undoubtedly
have killed him, if by good luck the officer at their head, to whom he
called, had not recognized his voice. If this troop was surprised at the
sight of him, he was not less astonished when he understood that the
whole Christian army commanded by Ferdinand in person, had fallen upon
two or three thousand men who had sallied from the town; that after a
violent action in which most of the Moors had perished, the enemy,
pursuing the rest to the suburbs, had entered it pell-mell with them,
and had taken possession of it; in short, that he must not flatter
himself with the idea of entering the town; to attempt it being certain
death or captivity. Ozmin, afflicted beyond measure at this
intelligence, and still more so at the necessity of thinking of saving
himself with the rest, formed a body of these fugitives of about three
hundred men, and returned with them to Granada, more mortified than the
first time at the ill success of his enterprise.

This sad news much alarmed king Mahomet, who, thinking, justly, that the
garrison of Baza must be much weakened after such an action, despaired
of being able to relieve the place, which appeared to him on the point
of being taken; and what made him more uneasy was, that after losing
this town, there would be no other able to endure a siege but Granada,
the capitol of his kingdom, and his last refuge. All the Moorish Court,
after its King’s example, was filled with grief.

As for Ozmin, his grief is not to be described; but soon after his
return to Granada, having learned that the Christians, who had entered
the suburbs of Baza with the Moors, had been obliged to abandon the
town, he felt somewhat re-animated, and resolved to try his fate a third
time. But just as he was ready to set out, Orviedo, his faithful squire,
arrived from that city, charged with a packet from the Governor for the
King, and a letter for Ozmin, in which he was made acquainted with the
misfortune which had befallen his Daraxa.

The perusal of this sad intelligence acted like a thunderbolt on the
amorous Ozmin; at first he stood for some time motionless; and when he
had at length recovered his senses, it was only to abandon himself to
the most violent agonies of mind, accompanied by sobbings and
convulsions. When this paroxysm had subsided, he was in such a
condition, that he had not even power left for lamentation; a fever
seized him, his strength failed him, and his death was hourly expected;
but Love, that great and learned doctor, especially in disorders
occasioned by himself, suddenly called him to life, by inspiring a
project calculated to console him, and easy to be put in execution; from
that moment he began visibly to recover; he regained his strength, and
was soon restored to perfect health.

Baza had been surrendered; it was well known that the Catholic King held
his court at Seville, and that it was his intention to pass the winter
there with the Queen. Ozmin not doubting that Daraxa was highly in favor
with that Princess, resolved to repair to that city with Orviedo, both
disguised as Andalusian gentlemen; for besides that they both spoke the
Castilian language so well that it would be difficult to discover that
they were Moors, he felt persuaded that they should not attract the
least notice in a town which must needs be in the greatest confusion. He
communicated his new project to Orviedo, whose natural disposition was
enterprising, and who never threw difficulties in the way; and the
master and squire accordingly set out one night from Granada, in the
most private manner, mounted upon horses not inferior in their paces and
speed to the most famous coursers of the Paladins, with a considerable
quantity of jewels, and several purses of gold, which they did not
forget to provide themselves with.

They expected to meet with some awkward rencontre in passing through the
places where the Christian troops were posted, and they were not
deceived in their expectation. The next day, within a league of Loxa,
they unluckily fell in with the Grand Provost of the army, with his
horsemen, who were in pursuit of deserters; he examined our two
travellers, who though they had not indeed much appearance of such as he
was in search of, yet as they seemed too well mounted for persons who
were plainly dressed, he stopped them, and inquired whence they came,
and whither they were going. Orviedo replied that they were of the
Marquis of Astorgas’ division, and that important business called them
to Seville. Upon this the Provost required to see their furlough; and as
they were not able to produce this, he determined to conduct them back
to the post from whence they said they came. By way of substitute for
this furlough, however, Ozmin drew from one of his fingers a very fine
diamond ring, which he presented to the Provost, who was so charmed with
the present, that he not only made a thousand apologies for having
stopped them on their journey, but insisted upon accompanying them to
Loxa, to shew that he understood good manners, and had a grateful heart.

They arrived at Seville without meeting with any other adventure; and
took up their lodgings in the suburbs beyond the river Guadalquiver;
which, although the most remote and obscure part of the town, was at
that time so thronged with persons of all qualities, and their
equipages, that they were fortunate in obtaining any accommodation at
all, which was not to be wondered at, it being only a few days before
the combat of bulls, when every one was busied in the magnificent
preparations that were making for these diversions. Our Moors had only
to listen to the conversation of the servants of the numerous noblemen,
with whom their inn was filled, as well as all the rest in the town, to
be perfectly well informed of whatever was going on at the court.

By these means, Ozmin learned more than he wished to know; they informed
him, among other things, that Don Alonso styled himself the Knight of
the beautiful Moor; that Daraxa had several other lovers, but that Don
Alonso had the advantage over all his rivals; and that if that lady
embraced Christianity, as was expected, it was confidently reported that
he would marry her. To complete his torments, the lively description
they gave of this cavalier was sufficient to agonize so nice and
passionate a lover as the wretched Ozmin; and had it not been for
Orviedo, he must certainly have relapsed into those ravings which had
before brought him so near the grave. This faithful squire recovered him
by degrees, by representing to him that he wronged Daraxa by such
alarms, who loved him too well to be faithless towards him: that, as for
the rest, it was not surprising that so lovely a person should have
inspired many with love, in a court celebrated for gallantry. Orviedo
completely succeeded in calming the agitation of his master’s mind, by
reminding him, that the approaching diversions would furnish a good
opportunity for himself to judge of the merit of his rivals, as well as
how Daraxa conducted herself towards them; and that he could take his
future measures accordingly. Ozmin yielded to his reasonings, and
determined to observe Daraxa attentively; at the same time, to shew her
the difference between his rivals and himself, and to signalize himself
by his strength and dexterity in the presence of the whole of the
Catholic Court, he resolved to enter the lists at the combat of bulls.
He enjoined Orviedo to prepare every thing that would be necessary for
that exercise, invented by the Moors, and at which Ozmin was universally
acknowledged to be the most expert in their nation.

The day of the solemnity at last arrived; never had so much magnificence
been seen; every thing was in order early in the morning; rich ornaments
and fine tapestries lined the streets through which Ferdinand and
Isabella were to pass with their court, in their way to the great square
appropriated to the diversions. Here was assembled a complete crowd of
people of every description seated on benches fixed round about as in an
amphitheatre; and on all sides were to be seen an infinite number of
ladies and gentlemen most superbly dressed, crowding the windows and
balconies, so that even the spectators formed a gratifying sight.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, the King and Queen took their
places in their balcony; in another, at the side of this, sat the
beautiful Moor, accompanied by many ladies and several old lords, who,
being no longer vigorous in these sports, found themselves obliged to
resign the honour of the combats to the younger noblemen. The sports
began, as usual, by the combat of bulls; they turned loose one at first,
who not being one of the most savage, was quickly brought to the ground.

Our two Moors were already at the place; they kept on the outside of
the square, among many other persons on horseback, to see how the
Christians managed these diversions. It need not be asked whether Ozmin
looked about impatiently for his mistress, whom he soon distinguished;
but how great his surprise, and what fatal presages did he form, when he
perceived that she was dressed in a Spanish habit; nevertheless, though
he could but see her from afar off, he could not avoid remarking a
certain sadness in her countenance; in fact, she felt so little interest
in these diversions, that an express desire of the Queen had been
necessary to oblige her to dress herself suitably to the occasion, and
notwithstanding which, she had taken but little pains to adorn herself;
with her elbow leaning on the balcony, and her head reclining on her
hand, her eye wandered on all sides with indifference, or rather her
mind was so abstracted from the sights before her, that she saw nothing
at all.

Although this melancholy appearance admitted of different
interpretations, Ozmin, through some remains of hope, explained it in
his own favor; and felt a secret pleasure on that account, of which
refined lovers only are susceptible. While he was thus occupied in
observing Daraxa with attention, the shouts of the spectators at seeing
the second bull turned out, much stronger and more vicious than the
first, obliged him, at length, to withdraw his attention, which had been
so long fixed on her balcony. He looked round the square, and observed
that the bull gave full employment to the cavaliers that opposed him;
but as he did not wish to shew what he could perform until after the
death of this second bull, it much surprised the spectators that were
round about them, that though Orviedo and he were superbly equipped,
they appeared to have no intention of venturing within the square: “for
what possible reason,” said they aloud one to another, “are these two
champions standing here without the lists? Are they only come here to
see the sports? Dare they not enter? Are they afraid of the bull’s
horns? Do they carry a lance only to lend it to some cavalier more
worthy to do honour to himself with it?”

These railleries, so usual among the common people, who spare nobody on
such occasions, were heard by Ozmin and Orviedo with contempt; all they
attended to was the issue of the combat of the bull which was then in
the square. This high-spirited animal had already disabled two of the
combatants, and having become more enraged by two slight wounds from Don
Alonso, he avenged himself on his horse, which he laid dead on the spot;
but just at that moment, Don Rodrigo de Padilla, one of the strongest of
all the combatants, struck the bull with such force, that another blow
was not necessary to dispatch him.

A third bull was on the point of being loosed, when Ozmin, who perceived
it, made sign to Orviedo to walk up to the bars of the lists, and
desire admission; and their appearance was of too much consequence for
this to be refused them. No sooner had they got within the lists, than
every eye was turned upon them; a silent admiration prevailed throughout
the place for a considerable time; every one seemed to take great
pleasure in considering the splendour of their arms, the tastefulness of
their equipage, and, above all, their noble appearance on horseback.
Ozmin, especially, attracted the observation of the assembly by his
graceful and fashionable deportment. Both their faces were covered with
blue crape, to shew that they did not wish to be known. The squire
carried his master’s lance in a different manner from the Spaniards; and
Ozmin wore round his left arm the embroidered handkerchief that Daraxa
had given him, which was a gallantry quite different from the custom in
Spain; from which it was concluded, that if they were not foreigners
they at least wished to be thought so; but that they were Moors was not
even suspected. Ferdinand was one of the first who had his eyes upon
them, and he pointed them out to the Queen, who was not less pleased
with their appearance. All the cavaliers, within the barrier, made way
for them to pass, and conceived, of the master in particular, the most
advantageous opinion.

Daraxa was the only one present who had taken no notice of these new
champions, and, most probably, would not have seen them at all, if the
old Don Lewis, Marquis de Padilla, father of Don Rodrigo, after having
rallied her upon her pensive and melancholy humour, had not obliged her
at last to turn her head that way. At first sight of these two
cavaliers, she felt a slight emotion, which she could not account for;
their foreign air excited her curiosity so as to induce her to ask Don
Lewis who they were. “I know not, Madam,” replied he, “nor is the King
himself able to learn.” In the mean time Ozmin approached the balcony
where she was; she fixed her eyes upon the handkerchief that he wore
upon his arm, and the palpitation of her heart at the moment inspired
her with a thousand thoughts. She could not, however, yet believe that
it could be the same handkerchief she had sent her lover when he was
wounded, nor that it was that dear lover himself who now stood before
her eyes; but as he stopped opposite to her balcony, and she had full
leisure to observe him with attention, her heart at length assured her
that _it could be no other_.

She was on the point of abandoning herself to the most excessive joy,
when the third bull, who, since he had been loose, had completely
disordered the whole square, came up, and interrupted these delightful
moments, by advancing towards Ozmin. This formidable animal was one of
the Tarita breed, and a more enormous beast had never been seen. His
frightful bellowings spread terror throughout the place. Though he had
no need to be irritated, they did not, therefore, omit to throw stakes
at him, according to custom, which so excited his rage, that Don
Rodrigo, Don Alonso, and the other combatants, dared not face him with
the intrepidity that they had shewn towards the two others.

This terrible beast, then, rushed towards Ozmin, who at that moment was
thinking of nothing less than preparing to defend himself; but being
warned of his danger by Orviedo, who quickly handed him his lance, and
animated by the sight of his mistress, he boldly presented himself
before the bull, and thrust his lance between the neck and shoulder with
so much vigor, that he left him nailed to the earth, as if he had been
struck down by a thunderbolt, with more than half of the lance through
his body; after which our champion threw the broken remainder, which
was still in his hand, into the middle of the square, and withdrew.

So bold and surprising an action excited the admiration of the whole
Court, and of all the people; the place re-echoed with shouts of
applause and acclamations; nothing was to be heard for a full quarter of
an hour, but, _long live the Knight of the Blue Scarf, the strongest and
bravest man of the age_. While the valour of Ozmin was being thus
proclaimed and celebrated, the timid Daraxa, whom the first sight of the
bull had filled with the most dreadful apprehensions for her lover, was
still so confounded, that she thought she saw the animal all in fury
before her; but the acclamations of the spectators, at length, by
degrees, brought her to her senses. She looked instantly all over the
square for her dear Moor; and not perceiving him, she enquired with
anxiety what was become of him; and he was pointed out to her at a
considerable distance from the lists, and followed by a crowd of people,
who appeared as if they would never be tired of gazing upon a man who
had so eminently distinguished himself.

It was now night, and the square in an instant shone with an infinite
number of flambeaux, which created a very fine illumination. The
diversion of the _sporting spears_ was soon to begin. Twelve squadrons
were seen advancing with their trumpets, fifes and kettle-drums,
followed by their livery servants, and twelve valets laden with bundles
of reeds made into sporting spears. The led horses of the knights had
velvet caparisons, of the colour of the squadron to which they belonged,
embroidered with gold and silver, and the arms of each chief; not only
gold and silver glistened in their equipages, but even jewels were not
spared. They entered the square in the following order:--

The equerries of every chief of a squadron marched first, conducting
the equipages; twelve horses, carrying at their foremost saddle-bows the
arms of each knight, and at their hinder their devices, came next,
followed by others, whose caparisons were hung with silver bells, which
made a loud jingling. The footmen in livery followed the horses: they
marched completely round the square, and went out by a different gate
from that at which they entered, to avoid confusion. The quadrillos,
each conducted by their chief, then entered in two files, with so much
grace and skill that they charmed all the spectators; which is not
surprising, since the most accomplished cavaliers for these sports are
undoubtedly those of Seville, Cordara, and Xeres de la Frontera, where
even children of eight or ten years of age are seen to manage horses,
and manœuvre them in most excellent style.

When the quadrillos had exhibited themselves four times round the
square, they retreated by the same gate as their equipages, but soon
returned again with their shields on their arms and their sporting
spears in their hands. They began their combats twelve against twelve,
that is to say, one quadrillo against another. Having thus fought for
about a quarter of an hour, two other squadrons came upon different
sides, who under pretence of parting them, began a new combat.

In the mean time, Ozmin and Orviedo, having at length escaped from the
crowd of people that had followed them, regained their inn; and having
disarmed themselves, they returned to the place of sports, where the
amorous Ozmin, pressing through the throng, placed himself under the
balcony of the beautiful Moor. As he was now but plainly dressed, nobody
took him for a man of any consequence notwithstanding his noble mien.
Daraxa, who felt assured that he would not fail to appear again before
her, was looking all around for him; but though he was so close to her,
and was gazing at her with admiration, she did not perceive him. She was
playing with a very fine nosegay, adorned with ribbons, which Don Alonso
had sent her in the morning; and this nosegay chanced to slip out of her
hand, and fell just at Ozmin’s feet, who hastened to take it up. This
accident caused the lady to look down, and she recognized her dear Moor,
from whom she did not afterwards turn her eyes; but perceiving that some
of the people that stood around him were preparing to oblige him to
restore the nosegay, she called aloud to them to let him keep it,
adding, that it was in good hands: this having put an end to the
dispute, the happy Ozmin, having become peaceable possessor of a favor
for which he considered he was indebted rather to chance than love,
fastened it, by way of gallantry, to his hat.

After this, our two lovers began to make signs to each other, a silent
but very common language among the Moors, which Spaniards have since
learnt of them, as well as very many other fashions, which have
contributed to establish that nation as the most gallant in Europe.
Ozmin and his mistress discoursed in this manner unnoticed by any one,
all the spectators being too attentive to the sports to observe them.
Besides, who could imagine that the beautiful Moor, who was so
regardless of the addresses of the most accomplished cavaliers at the
Court, could have found among the populace an object worthy of her
attention?

These happy moments lasted only to the end of the sports of the
quadrillos, which were no sooner ended, than the last bull, which was
not less ferocious than that which had been killed by Ozmin, was let
loose, as is customary, to conclude the diversions. The animal’s
motions, when he was first loosed, sufficiently evinced that he was
determined to sell his life dearly. Don Rodrigo de Padilla, Don Juan de
Castro, Don Alonso, and many other cavaliers alighted from their horses,
anxious to excel each other in engaging this beast on foot, who soon
made two or three among them well acquainted with the hardness of his
horns. One of them was carried off half dead, which rather moderated the
ardor of the rest.

In fact, none but a true knight-errant could possibly have been
delighted in engaging with a bull, whose very appearance was terrific;
he foamed with rage, tore up the earth with his feet, and looked at each
champion as if undecided on whom to vent his fury. Don Alonso,
nevertheless, excited by his love, was desirous of signalizing himself
under the eyes of the beautiful Moor, at the risk of his life. With this
view, he advanced towards her balcony, to be the more observed by her,
and while he stood thus in expectation of the animal’s approach, he
perceived Ozmin, who now remained alone on that spot, fear having
dispersed the crowd which had before surrounded him. Daraxa had in vain
endeavoured, by signs, to prevail on him to follow them, or at least to
get upon a scaffolding hard by; her tears had not been able to overcome
his resolution; the conqueror of the bull of Tarita, would have
considered it dishonorable to have shewn himself afraid of any other.

Zuniga took particular notice of this cavalier, or rather of the nosegay
which he perceived in his hat, and which he easily recognized by the
light of the flambeaux, with which the whole square was illuminated. He
was not a little surprised at what he saw; but to be more certain that
he was not mistaken, he addressed himself to Ozmin, who appeared to him
no more than a man of the vulgar order: “Friend,” said he to him, “who
gave you that nosegay?” Although the Moor rightly guessed what interest
the cavalier who spoke to him might feel in it, he answered, without the
least concern, that “it came to him very fairly, but that he owed it to
Fortune only:” “I know but too well whence you got it,” replied Don
Alonso, raising his voice, “deliver it up to me immediately, it was not
made for you.” “I grant nothing by compulsion,” rejoined Ozmin, as
coolly as before. “Once more,” said Zuniga, “give me that nosegay, or I
shall let you know, my fine fellow, whom you have to deal with.” “I
regret much,” said Ozmin, somewhat agitated, “that we are in the King’s
presence; were we any where else, I should not content myself with
refusing you my nosegay, but should force from you that knot of ribbon,
which I perceive at your bosom.” This was the very same knot which the
beautiful Moor had bestowed on Don Alonso, when she accepted him as her
champion; and which Ozmin, who had formerly given it Daraxa, knew but
too well; perceiving, therefore, that the cavalier who spoke to him was
the most formidable of his rivals, he could scarcely restrain his rage
at this discovery. Don Alonso, still more violent than he, lost all
patience at seeing himself threatened by a man whom he considered so
much beneath him: calling him, therefore, an insolent fellow, and
thrusting among the ribbons of his nosegay a sharp-pointed stick, such
as the champions make use of to irritate the bulls, he intended to have
carried off the nosegay and hat together, but the active and vigorous
Ozmin forced the stick from his hand as from a child’s.

Who can express the rage of the proud Zuniga, at having received such an
affront under the eyes of his mistress, and in the King’s presence! He
was no longer master of himself; without any regard to the presence of
their Majesties, he drew his sword; but at the very instant that he was
on the point of rushing like a lion on his enemy, who on his side was
prepared to receive him without fear, the bull came suddenly upon them,
and obliged them to separate. This animal attacked Don Alonso, and threw
him, by one toss, four or five paces off, terribly wounded in the thigh;
which excited the greatest alarm on all sides. To complete the
misfortune, the beast, more enraged than ever, would not quit his
victim, but was preparing to return to the charge; but Ozmin, from a
generous feeling worthy of the warriors of those times, did not hesitate
to fly to the assistance of his rival, notwithstanding what had just
passed between them. With the very stick that he had wrenched from Don
Alonso, he goaded the bull so severely, that he turned all his fury
against him, and bent his head with the intention of goring him with his
horns. The Moor took advantage of the moment, and, hitting him a back
stroke on the neck with his sword, the temper of which he could rely on,
such was the amazing force of the blow, that the animal fell down dead
upon the spot, to the great astonishment of all the spectators.

What had been performed by the Knight of the Blue Scarf passed for a
trifling exploit compared with this, which the disadvantage of fighting
on foot rendered the more glorious; and the acclamations lasted longer
than before. Ozmin evaded by a quick retreat the curiosity of such as
wished to know who he was. The king in vain desired to see him; he was
told that he had just disappeared, and that nobody knew any thing
respecting him.

Let us now return to Daraxa: she had observed the quarrel of the two
rivals, and had been on the point of preventing any fatal consequences
by explaining the whole affair to their Majesties, though at the risk
of the loss of her lover’s liberty: but the terror with which she was
seized on seeing the furious bull come upon them so suddenly, had
completely deprived her of her senses. The acclamations, however, which
were renewed around her, restored her by degrees. Thus this tender lover
passed successively from joy to grief, and from grief to joy; and thus
it is that love ever inflicts some troubles, even amid the transports
that it bestows.

As the adventure respecting the nosegay had commenced just under the
place where the queen was seated, it had not escaped her notice; and
curious to know all the circumstances of it, she took an opportunity,
the very same evening, to request a detail of them from the beautiful
Moor and Donna Elvira de Padilla, who had been together during the
solemnity. Daraxa, thinking it more prudent to allow Elvira to speak,
however much better she herself might have afforded the explanation,
said, that she had paid but little attention to what had passed. Donna
Elvira then was obliged to relate what she had heard and seen; but her
recital rather heightened than satisfied the Queen’s curiosity; no
sooner, therefore, was Don Alonso sufficiently recovered of his wound to
receive visitors, than she requested the old Marquis d’Astorgas to call
upon him, in the hope of obtaining from him the information she desired.
The Marquis, who was a pleasant humorous man, was ushered into Don
Alonso’s chamber, and thus acquitted himself of his commission.

“Well Signor Knight without fear,” said he to Zuniga, “what think you
now of these vile horned animals, who have so little respect for such
fine sparks as you? You will allow that it is better to have nothing to
do with them.” “You could have informed me this, from experience, long
since,” replied Don Alonso, smiling. “But,” continued the Marquis, with
a serious air, “will you not inform me who was the valiant man that
advanced so apropos to your rescue? It is most surprising that amongst
all the heroes of our Court, there was not one sufficiently your friend,
to venture to dispute that honor with him: and yet it is asserted that
you were on the point of fighting with this noble cavalier.” “I know
better than any body my obligations to him,” answered Zuniga, “and the
little cause I had given him to deliver me from so great a danger. All
that I regret,” added he, “is that I do not know him; I am so charmed
with his bravery, and his noble behaviour towards me, that I shall never
be satisfied until I have found some means of ascertaining who he is,
and of convincing him of my gratitude.”

“If this be all that you have to tell me,” said the Marquis, “the Queen
will not gain much information by having sent me hither. She is not
ignorant of the quarrel that you had with the stranger, the beautiful
Moor and Donna Elvira having explained it to her; she thought that you
would be able to satisfy her more fully on the subject; and the whole
Court as well as the Queen are astonished that two cavaliers, after
having performed two such glorious actions, should take as much pains to
conceal themselves, as others generally take to make themselves known.
Ferdinand himself is anxious that they should come forward and receive
the prizes that are destined for them, and especially for the last, who,
according to all appearance, was not a man of any distinguished rank.”
“Judging from his dress,” cried Don Alonso, “I was, at first, of the
same opinion, but I feel convinced of my mistake; whoever he be I will
venture to say, that he is a great man; and I can say no more on the
subject.” The Marquis d’Astorgas, finding that he could gain no further
information from Zuniga, returned to the Queen.

It was believed at Court that all this was not without mystery, and that
Don Alonso, in return for the generosity that he had experienced, would
not betray a cavalier who wished to be incognito. As for Daraxa, nobody
suspected that she was at all privy to the matter; and the concern that
she had evinced during the sports, was attributed solely to the
misfortune of Don Alonso. It was very reasonably thought that she was
kind enough to feel interested for a young nobleman, who was her
champion as well as her adorer. She enjoyed in private the undivided
pleasure of knowing what had happened; but this happiness was
accompanied by the intrusion of many anxious thoughts. She had
distinctly heard what Ozmin had said to his rival about the knot of
ribbon, and she so well knew the delicate feelings of the Moors on such
occasions, that she reproached herself with imprudence for having given
to Zuniga any thing that had been presented to her by so dear a hand.
She could find no excuse for having committed this fault, although her
heart had no participation in it. She could not write to Ozmin, for she
knew not where he was to be found; she could only hope that her lover
would find some means or other of communicating with her. Several days
passed in this sweet yet painful expectation; sometimes she reflected
with pleasure that her future husband was in the same city as herself,
and at other times, was distractedly impatient to see him. Time,
however, brings every thing about.

You have, in all probability, walked in the gardens of the palace of
Seville, and know which is called the upper and which the lower garden;
they are literally two gardens, one above the other: the upper one,
which is supported upon arches, is upon a level with the first floor of
the palace, and is a complete flower garden. The lower garden, which is
the larger of the two, was only open to the men belonging to the Court,
who were permitted to walk there at certain hours. The upper garden was
entirely reserved for the ladies, who frequently walked there to shew
themselves to the gentlemen, with whom they occasionally conversed over
the balustrade which runs about elbow high, quite round the garden; but
these conversations were only permitted when the King and Queen were
absent; in their presence they were obliged to content themselves with
signs. Any gentleman was permitted, however, to sing, even in the
presence of their Majesties, provided he possessed a fine voice. There
were also, occasionally, instrumental concerts, the execution of which
was enchanting.

One evening the beautiful Moor was walking in this garden with her
friend Donna Elvira. They had scarcely taken two turns before they
heard a man singing in so agreeable a strain, that they determined to
listen. They concealed themselves behind some orange-trees that grew
along the balustrade, directly opposite to the singer, whom they could
observe without being seen by him. Elvira was much struck by his
handsome appearance, and Daraxa recognized her Ozmin. Seated on a bank
of turf, with his head reclining negligently against a tree, he sang the
following verses in the Castilian language:--

    Wilt thou, stern Jealousy! at once destroy
    My life and love, with unrelenting doom?
    Why, cruel Fate, this last sad blow employ
    To sink me sorrowing to an early tomb?
    Absence from her I love hath been the source
    Of daily anxious thought, severe to bear;
    But now Inconstancy, the Lover’s curse,
    Clouds all my hope, and drives me to despair.

Among other excellencies our illustrious Moor was a most accomplished
singer; instead of priding himself, however, upon this quality, he
rather strove to conceal it. Many of the cavaliers at the Court of
Granada speak good Spanish, and even sing in that language; there were
even many Moors who composed verses in Castilian, which were much
admired by the Spanish poets. Those which Ozmin had just been singing
were composed by a Moorish author, and set to music by one of the same
nation. Daraxa doubted not that it alluded to herself; and being
unwilling to lose the opportunity of making a reply, she tore a leaf out
of her pocket-book upon which she wrote the following words:--

“No more uneasiness about the knot of ribbon; the gift was made without
the participation of the heart. Be assured when Daraxa loves, she loves
but once in her life-time; if you wish to know more, you will find Laida
at the palace-gate, at nine to-morrow morning.”

Having folded this leaf up carefully, she threw it into the lower
garden, through the boughs of the orange-trees, which did not conceal
her so perfectly as to prevent Ozmin from perceiving her. He observed
that she had let something fall, which she had done so cautiously, that
her friend had not in the least remarked it, who was, in fact, so much
taken up with admiring and listening to the singer, that she thought of
nothing else. No sooner had he finished his song, than she called to him
to begin again for ladies’ sakes. This request he would willingly have
complied with, but the King had just returned from hunting, which
obliged Daraxa and her friend to return to the palace, to the great
regret of the latter, who did not feel the least desire to quit the
spot.

No sooner had the ladies retired, than Ozmin, curious to know what his
dear Daraxa had thrown towards him, soon found the folded leaf, under
the spot where she had stood to listen to his singing, which he took
up, and quitted the garden hastily, congratulating himself on his good
fortune, and considering how often he should be there in future.

Daraxa’s billet completely restored him to life, and he did not fail to
dispatch Orviedo the next morning to the palace gate, where he met
Laida, who was covered with a thick black veil to prevent her being
known. As soon as she perceived Orviedo, she addressed him, gave him a
letter from her mistress, and received one from Ozmin in return. Before
they separated they had together a conversation long enough to enable
them to give a most satisfactory account to both the lovers. Ozmin’s
letter was full of complaints, and Daraxa’s of protestations of fidelity
and love. They were, however, soon appeased. There is, certainly, a
voluptuous pleasure in the quarrels of lovers; but they ought not to
last long, neither should they too frequently occur, lest they produce
ill effects.

What consolation for our lovers to have found means to establish an
intercourse by letter, and even to see each other occasionally! Daraxa
would gladly have walked alone in the palace gardens, that she might
have conversed more freely with Ozmin; but it was too great a risk. They
must both have been inevitably lost if any person had discovered them.
Besides which, the sight of Ozmin had made so much impression on Elvira,
that she never left her friend, and talked of nothing but the cavalier
who had sung so finely. She herself proposed to her friend, the very
next day, to walk in the garden, in the hope of meeting him there; and
the complaisant Daraxa, who equally desired it, willingly consented to
accompany her.

They left the palace together, and, upon looking into the lower garden,
they perceived that the cavalier had just arrived there, and was seated
in the same place as the day preceding. Donna Elvira, who was one of the
most lovely women at Court, was not content with shewing herself, but
obliged her friend to do the same. Ozmin pretended to be surprised to
see them, and was about to retire; but Elvira commenced a conversation
with him to detain him; he answered, and they all three at length
insensibly engaged in a sprightly discourse, but still only such as a
stranger could hold with two unknown ladies.

Ozmin summoned up all his wit on the occasion, and Elvira’s shone no
less. Animated by the emotions of a rising passion, she said a thousand
smart things, which she could not otherwise have thought of, although
naturally full of wit. Daraxa was content to listen and say nothing. In
short, each of them was well pleased, and time glided away with the
rapidity usual on such agreeable occasions. If Ozmin did not find it
tedious, the ladies, on their side, made it sufficiently evident that
they were not tired of his company, for the King had already returned to
the palace, and they had not once thought of retiring. The gardener put
Ozmin in mind that it was time to leave the garden; but Elvira, before
they separated, fixed, for another interview, the first day that the
King went hunting again.

After this conversation, Elvira was so charmed with Ozmin, that when
they had parted, she could not refrain from telling Daraxa that she had
never seen so accomplished a cavalier. Any other but the beautiful Moor
would have been alarmed by so frank a confession; but she relied so
firmly on her lover’s fidelity, that she only smiled at it; while her
friend thought her the most insensible of her sex, and made no mystery
of the passion she entertained for the unknown gentleman, of whom she
was constantly speaking in the most lively terms. “Yes,” she would say
to Daraxa, “I am touched by the merits of this cavalier; but I should be
glad to know who he is, and why such a man should never shew himself at
Court. I conjure you, my dear Daraxa, to ask him this when we next see
him.” Ozmin was soon informed of all this by his mistress, who warned
him of the delicate situation in which he stood; that he ought not to
abuse the credulous passion of Elvira, nor could he, she trusted, be
capable of betraying his faithful Daraxa; that in love the slightest
appearances cause anxiety; and that when one person is in possession of
the heart, she ought to be the sole object of all its desires.

Ozmin really thought that his mistress wrote thus to amuse herself, and
therefore answered her in a jesting manner. He even went further, for at
the next interview he paid particular court to Elvira, who received his
attentions in the most sensible manner, and returned them with usury.
Daraxa, agreeably to her friend’s request, then interrogated him about
his country and birth, and the present condition of his fortune. He
replied, without hesitation, that he was a gentleman of Arragon, and
that his name was Don Jaymé Vivez; that, having been taken by the Moors,
and set at liberty by the capitulation of Baza, he was waiting in
expectation of remittances from his family, to enable him to put himself
into a condition to appear at Court. The story was simple and plausible,
and sufficiently satisfactory to Donna Elvira, who, having inquired if
there was a family in Arragon of the name of Vivez, learned, with
extreme satisfaction, that it was one of the most illustrious in the
kingdom.

This intrigue became by degrees very distressing to our two lovers.
Elvira was really in love, and became more troublesome to them in
proportion as her love increased. Ozmin no sooner perceived that she
was in earnest, than he completely altered his behaviour towards her,
and only addressed her in a civil and polite manner; but Elvira’s
passion increased without his assistance. Daraxa, well satisfied with
Ozmin’s conduct, pitied her friend sincerely, and would gladly have
undeceived her; but she feared that such behaviour on her part would
have excited Elvira’s jealousy, the effects of which were too much to be
feared in the present condition of her fortune.

In the mean time Spring came on, and gave quite another face to the
affairs at Court. Ferdinand resolved to open the campaign by the siege
of Granada; and the Moors, who had foreseen that this would be the case,
were preparing to do their best in defence of so important a place. They
had in the city a garrison of fifteen thousand men, of the best troops
of King Mahomet. The Catholic King was well aware of this, and
therefore had taken the precaution to solicit, by his Ministers, as
well as through the interposition of the Pope, the assistance of the
other Christian Princes, to execute his design of chasing all the
Infidels out of Spain. Many of these Princes had promised succours; and
as soon as he was well assured that their troops were advancing to join
him, he set forward himself at the head of his army, with the intention
of surprising the Moors, and to give them no further time to fortify
themselves.

As the Queen foresaw that so precarious a siege would last for a
considerable time, she resolved to accompany the King, and pass the
campaign with him. This report being spread, our two lovers were much
rejoiced at it, hoping that, in the confusion of the army, they might
find an opportunity, with the assistance of Orviedo, to get into
Granada. But their ill luck ordained it otherwise; for the Queen, the
evening prior to her departure, told Daraxa that she was not to
accompany her in this journey. “To have less trouble,” added that
Princess, “I shall only take with me those women whose services I shall
absolutely require. It is my intention to leave my maids of honour at
Seville, with their relations, or under the care of persons of
distinction, to whom I shall recommend them. As for you, my dear Daraxa,
you will be entrusted to Don Lewis de Padilla. I have made choice of
this Nobleman because he is the father of your friend Elvira; besides
which, I think you will find yourself more agreeably situated in his
family than elsewhere.”

The despair of Ozmin knew no bounds when his mistress sent him word of
this order of the Queen. He saw that all his plans were frustrated, and
his mind, fluctuating amidst a variety of thoughts and undetermined
suggestions, inspired alternately by love and glory, was in an
inconceivable perplexity. But he received so many tender and moving
letters from Daraxa, that she at length succeeded in fixing his
irresolute thoughts upon herself alone. The following is one of these
letters, which I have selected from among them:

“Orviedo has informed me how excessively you lament your absence from
Granada. Depart, Ozmin, depart; your heart is more devoted to glory than
to love. Let me not detain you here any longer: I well know that your
departure will cost me my life; but the severest pangs that I shall
suffer will be in dying for an ungrateful man, who abandons me at the
very time that I stand most in need of his assistance. I thought myself
dearer to you than all the world. How greatly was I mistaken! Of whom am
I to complain? Of myself, for having believed you, or of you for having
thus beguiled me? If my love for you does not make me blind, your life
is mine. You have told me so a hundred times, nay, you have sworn it.
Why then, without my consent, do you dispose of what is mine? How can
you think of applying it to any other use than that of serving me? Ah!
Ozmin, you know but little how to love! How far are you behind me in
love’s race! Glory may be every where acquired; and many might be found,
if sought for, who would willingly resign all pretensions to glory, and
share the distresses of an unfortunate woman, in preference to serving
all the monarchs upon earth.”

Anxious as Ozmin was to render himself serviceable to his country, he
was unable to resist Daraxa’s persuasive remonstrances; and the lover,
on this occasion, gained the victory over the hero in him. The Court set
forward for the army; and the beautiful Moor was received by the Marquis
de Padilla with as much honour as if she had been the Queen herself.
Elvira, who loved her tenderly, and whom an interest still stronger
than friendship assisted to rejoice that they should henceforth be
inseparable companions, was delighted with this change. Daraxa would
also have been tolerably satisfied with her situation, if she had had a
little more liberty in the family; but, on the contrary, she was more
confined than she had been at Court. She was completely a prisoner. In
the first place, neither she nor Elvira dared venture to leave the
house, under any pretence whatever. The only indulgence that was
extended to them was to walk of an evening in the garden at a regulated
hour; and, as if this walk was not a recreation sufficiently restricted
for them, the old Marquis generally took the trouble of accompanying
them; or, if he sometimes had not sufficient time to allow of his
harassing them with his vexatious company, Don Rodrigo, his son, took
charge of them, and they gained nothing by the change. In addition to
all this, the ladies’ apartments had no look-out but towards the
garden, without any window towards the street. They saw nobody from
without doors, neither men nor women; and of the people in the house,
very few were permitted to speak to them.

All these unpleasantries united to embitter the extreme civilities paid
her by Don Lewis. This old courtier professed that he only treated her
in this manner from the very great consideration and respect he
entertained for her. Daraxa was not, however, the dupe of these fine
protestations; but losing all hope of receiving any communication from
her lover, she would have completely given herself up to chagrin, had
not Donna Elvira also been concerned in it, who, being scarcely able to
live any longer without her dear Don Jaymé, told Daraxa that she much
wished to write to that cavalier. “Ah!” answered Daraxa, “and how do you
think of conveying the letter to him?” “One of my women,” replied
Elvira, “has prevailed on a man, who does not belong to the family, and
who is well acquainted with Vivez, to undertake to deliver the letter
into his own hands.” Daraxa approved of her resolution, and they sat
down to compose a letter together. The daughter of Don Lewis wrote it,
and Daraxa added these words in her own language: “The chief happiness
of lovers consists in seeing each other; their chief misery in being
separated. I languish in expectation of hearing from you. I die if I do
not receive some news from you shortly.”

Elvira asked the meaning of these words, and Daraxa answered, “I have
sent word to Don Jaymé that his mistress can no longer endure his
absence, and must fall a prey to _ennui_, if she do not find relief
where she expects it.” The most attached friends generally behave in
this manner towards each other when they are rivals in love.

The letter was faithfully delivered to Ozmin, who was the more rejoiced
at its receipt as he had up to that moment employed in vain all
Orviedo’s ingenuity to discover what was going on at Don Lewis’s: and as
one happy event never occurs, according to the proverb, without another
treading on its heels, it happened, two days after this, that Orviedo
appeared before him dressed like a labourer. Ozmin did not recognize him
at first, but shortly afterwards asked him the reason for this disguise.
“I will tell you,” replied Orviedo. “I equipped myself in this manner
for the purpose of perambulating the Marquis de Padilla’s house, in the
hope of meeting one of Daraxa’s Moorish women, or of scraping
acquaintance with some one of Don Lewis’s servants. I chanced to stop
before a particular part of the garden, where several workmen were
engaged in repairing the wall. The master-mason seeing me very attentive
to their work, took me for one of his own trade: ‘My good friend,’ said
he to me, ‘I am in want of labourers to finish this job, are you
inclined to lend a hand?’ I replied, that I was employed elsewhere, but
that I had a comrade who was out of work, and would be glad to make
himself useful to him. ‘Send him to me,’ said the master-mason, ‘if he
only knows how to wheel a barrow, he will be of service, and I will pay
him well.’ Upon this I left him,” added Orviedo, smiling, “to propose
this fine job to you, which love presents to make you pass your time
more agreeably.”

Ridiculous as such an undertaking appeared to Ozmin, he was too much
enamoured of Daraxa to reject this opportunity of seeing her. He
accepted the employment, dressed himself like a workman, and followed
Orviedo, who said to the master-mason, “_Senor Maestro de obra_, this is
my comrade Ambrosio, an unfortunate soldier, who after having been four
years a prisoner among the Moors, is reduced to labour for his
subsistence.” The bargain was soon struck, and Ambrosio hired to begin
his work the next morning. Our new workman, to shew that he had his work
at heart, was up betimes to attend his new master, who led him into the
garden, and putting the wheelbarrow into his hands, told him what he was
to do. Ambrosio took to his work as readily as if he had been all his
life-time in the trade: at which his master was so much satisfied, that
he praised him exceedingly, assuring him that he would, in time, make an
excellent workman.

Nobody yet appeared stirring in the house; but about ten o’clock our
workman observed some of the Moorish women at the windows of Daraxa’s
apartment, and shortly after, Daraxa herself with Donna Elvira. He now
began to felicitate himself upon his contrivance; and felt delighted
with the anticipation of the surprise the ladies would be in, when they
should be walking in the garden, and recognize him in this laughable
disguise. He even flattered himself, that in this habit, he might
occasionally speak to them without danger. He knew not what sort of man
Don Lewis was.

Independent of Daraxa’s having been recommended to his care by the
Queen, in so particular a manner, that he would have considered himself
unworthy of such confidence, did he not watch night and day over her
actions, he well knew that she had many lovers; and did not believe
Daraxa to be more insensible than others, the Moorish women of those
days not being considered enemies to love. But was more afraid of
enterprises from without, than of inward insensibility; of amorous
cavaliers, than of the object beloved. He feared Don Alonso more than
any, whom he regarded as a favoured lover. And his fear had by no means
subsided, although well informed that this young lord was not yet
sufficiently recovered to leave his house, and, consequently, unable to
contrive any means of intercourse with the beautiful Moor. A commerce by
billet-doux seemed to him to be no less dangerous than the nearest
conversation. To relieve his mind entirely from such apprehensions, he
pressed the master-mason incessantly to make an end of his work, fearing
that some one of the workmen might be bold enough to undertake some
amorous commission: this idea kept him constantly uneasy, and obliged
him to observe all the labourers.

Seeing them at work at the close of this day, he took particular notice
of Ambrosio, whom he had not before observed, and who appeared to him a
very steady looking young fellow. This examination did not much please
the young Moor, who turned pale from fear of being discovered. He had,
however, nothing to apprehend; for suspicious and mistrustful as the old
man was, he could distinguish nothing but the labourer in Ambrosio; and
this false mason left his work at the regular time with the others,
having had no other gratification during the whole of the day, than that
of seeing his mistress pass him with Don Rodrigo, who was his rival. How
much patience is necessary in love, although the most violent of all
passions! Ozmin knew this already but too well. He was not, therefore,
dispirited, but thought himself amply rewarded for his trouble, in
having seen his beloved. If this can satisfy a Spaniard, why should it
not suffice to make a Moor feel happy?

Fortune was much more favourable towards him the following day. He
returned to his labour with fresh courage. The wheelbarrow was in
perpetual motion; and as in carrying the stones along he was obliged to
pass frequently under the windows of Daraxa’s apartment, he began to
sing a pastoral song in the Moorish language. The masons considered him
a lively fellow, who had been a long time prisoner among the Infidels,
and were not surprised at hearing him sing one of their songs. But Laida
heard him from her chamber; and curious to know what man it could be who
was singing one of the songs of her country so well, went down into the
garden, and recognized Ozmin.

She pretended to be gathering flowers for her mistress, which she did
almost every day; and the Moor perceiving that she leered upon him, as
he passed by her next time with his wheelbarrow, let fall a letter just
before her eyes, which he had brought with him concealed in his bosom,
without stopping or even looking at Laida, who instantly snatched it up,
and carried it to her mistress.

You will easily conceive the joy and surprise of Daraxa. She was still
in bed. She rose immediately, and dressed herself quickly, to enjoy
from her window the pleasure of again beholding a lover so dear to her.
She was much affected to see that he felt no shame in subjecting himself
to so wretched a condition to show his extreme love for her; and yet
there was something in this fantastical equipage which delighted her
extremely. She wrote an answer to his letter, which she entrusted to
Laida, who took the first opportunity to deliver it, unperceived by any
one. From so propitious a commencement to his adventure, Signor Ambrosio
began to relish his trade of a mason. Daraxa was almost all day at the
window to see him pass and repass; so that they had full opportunity to
converse by signs, which had a thousand charms for two lovers of so
refined a character.

Thus they went on for several days. Don Lewis never failed to be among
the workmen every evening, that his presence might excite them to
despatch their work, and he always remarked that Ambrosio was the most
indefatigable among them. He took a particular fancy for him on this
account; and thinking that he would make a good servant, he inquired of
the master-mason where he had procured so good a labourer. “One of the
artisans of the city brought him to me,” answered he, “and I have every
reason to be well satisfied with him.” With so good a recommendation the
Marquis took Ambrosio aside, to whom he had never yet spoken, and asked
him of what country he was. Our labourer made answer, in the most
clownish manner he could possibly affect, that he was born at Arragon;
and went on, fully confirming what Orviedo had before related to the
master-mason. Don Lewis found his story very plausible, and it even
seemed to him that he had the accent of that country. “Who was your
master at Granada,” continued he, “and in what were you particularly
employed?” “My Lord,” said Ambrosio, “I was servant to a great merchant,
who had a very fine garden, and I had the care of his flowers.” “You
know then how to cultivate a flower-garden!” cried the Marquis. “I am
delighted; for I am just in want of a man to pay attention to mine,
which I take great pride in. I have been wishing for one for these three
months past, as my present gardener will not undertake the entire care
of it; if, therefore, you are willing to serve me, I will pay you good
wages, and shall not be disregardful of your future fortune, provided
you continue faithful, and perform your duty punctually.”

At these words, our pretended labourer expressed more by his outward
behaviour than by words, that he was most grateful for Don Lewis’s
kindness, which he would endeavour to deserve by his future exertions.
The agreement was soon made; Don Lewis desired him to lay by his apron,
take leave of his present master, and to wait upon him the next day,
when he should be provided with every thing necessary for the
cultivation of his flower garden.

Ozmin was now no longer, therefore, a mason, but a gardener to the
Marquis de Padilla, who, on his arrival next day, began by prescribing
to him the line of conduct which he was to observe, if he hoped to be
retained for any length of time in his family. He desired him to
entertain the greatest respect for the ladies, and to avoid any sort of
intercourse with the female servants. He dwelt particularly on this
point, because, in spite of his affected clownish looks, he thought him
of a handsome person.

After this lecture, his patron, who had sufficiently discovered to
Ambrosio that he was a true Spaniard in his opinion of the fair sex, set
his new gardener to work in his own presence, to judge of his ability,
for he knew enough of the art to judge of his performance. Fortunately
for Ozmin, he had a taste for flowers, and was as skilful in their
culture as many a florist by profession. Don Lewis was soon convinced
that he had gained an acquisition, upon which he prided himself, and he
was so full of it, that he could not refrain from mentioning it at
dinner. He said that he had been lucky enough to meet with a gardener to
cultivate his flowers, and he hoped that for the future his
flower-garden would be well attended to. “Among my workmen,” added he,
“I remarked a young fellow who was employed at the wheelbarrow, whom I
asked a few questions, and have discovered that he is a complete adept
in the culture of flowers.”

This discourse did not escape Daraxa, who doubted not that the new
gardener was Ozmin, and hoped that she should by this means have more
frequent opportunities of speaking and writing to him. After dinner, she
led Elvira into her apartment, where they both stood at the window that
looked towards the garden. Ambrosio was at this time in the middle of
the parterre opposite to them. The beautiful Moor having recognized him,
and wishing to amuse herself, pointed him out to her friend; “Look at
the gardener of whose skill your father has been boasting to us just
now; observe him attentively; does not your heart whisper something in
his favour? do you not feel some unusual emotions?”

Elvira laughed aloud at these words which she thought were meant only in
joke; but after having looked for sometime she began to suspect the
truth. But the fear of being mistaken, and then laughed at, prevented
her from saying what she thought, till Daraxa pressing her to answer and
calling her insensible confirmed her suspicions. She then broke forth
into an excess of joy and passionate expressions which but too well
betrayed her excessive love for Don Jaymé. The prudent Moor rejoiced
exceedingly that she had no longer concealed the metamorphosis of that
cavalier. “My dear Elvira,” said she, “it is well that I have been the
first to make this discovery. Alas! if Don Jaymé had presented himself
before you in the presence of Don Lewis or Don Rodrigo, your surprise
would have ruined us; but as you are now prepared to see him, I trust
you will so restrain your feelings, as not to create any suspicions.”
Elvira promised that she would do her best: after which the two ladies
amused themselves by discoursing of the pretended Ambrosio.

Don Lewis’s daughter could not conceive how he had managed to deceive
her father, the most mistrustful of men; and felt well pleased that Don
Jaymé had subjected himself to so mean an employment for her sake. Had
she known as much as her friend upon that score, her grateful
sentiments would doubtless have abated.

From this time there was nothing but pleasures and intrigues from
morning till night between the two ladies and the happy gardener.
Claricia and Laida their confidants were expert girls, who served them
with as much address as zeal. Ambrosio on his side acquitted himself so
skilfully towards both his mistresses, that they were both well
satisfied. Never was any affair better conducted. Elvira disclosed all
the feelings of her heart to her friend, and Daraxa was prudent enough
not to communicate what she felt in return. These rivals had each their
particular hiding place in the garden; love letters flew to and fro;
there was a perfect post of gallantry established; and if their
communication had gone no further, ought they not to have been well
satisfied with so agreeable a life? But if love be sufficiently
gratified when ’tis only in fair way of succeeding, it immediately
ceases to be love. That passion soon grows tired of the same pleasures
too often repeated; it looks for variety. The impatient Elvira longed
for an interview, and in her next letter desired Don Jaymé to meet them
that night at the window of the lower gallery, of which Claricia would
get the key. Although Daraxa did not altogether approve of this
nocturnal meeting, she had not sufficient resolution to object to it.

Ambrosio lodged in the gardener’s house at the bottom of the garden, the
door of which was always closed at midnight by order of Don Lewis, and
remained shut until the hour for returning to work the next morning:
this, however, was but a trifling impediment to our lover, who soon made
a ladder of small cords, by means of which he could descend from his
chamber into the garden, and re-ascend at his pleasure. In his answer
therefore, he assured the ladies that he would not fail to be at the
appointed spot the next night. With what impatience did they await that
moment; and when it arrived, how delighted were they to be able to
converse with their dear Ambrosio. Elvira gave way to the impetuosity of
her feelings, without restraint; and Daraxa’s, though more restrained,
were not in reality less violent. The windows of the gallery were very
low, and the iron bars were at a sufficient distance apart to admit an
arm between them. The amorous Elvira, emboldened by the darkness of the
night, put her hands through the bars for Ozmin to kiss, to the heart’s
regret of Daraxa. Ozmin, who well knew the delicate feelings of his
country-woman on this point, took every opportunity of mitigating the
pain that he knew she must feel on the occasion, by every endearment he
could bestow on her unperceived by her friend; this interview,
therefore, was the cause of more anxiety than gratification to Daraxa,
who, though she possessed her lover’s heart, thought herself much to be
pitied; when, on the contrary, her friend, though not loved by Ozmin as
she imagined, felt herself truly happy. The one, ignorant of her
happiness, was unhappy; while the other, who knew not how unfortunate
she really was, felt elated with joy.

After two hours’ conversation they at last parted: Ambrosio regained his
chamber, and the ladies withdrew, very differently affected by this
interview. If Don Lewis’s daughter felt desirous for a second meeting,
Daraxa’s wishes were much the reverse. Elvira had shewn so little
modesty in this first interview, that she had good reason to fear she
would become still less reserved, and more violent in her love; she
could not, therefore, any longer refrain from writing a letter to Ozmin
on the subject, wherein she told him that she never wished to converse
with him again in this clandestine manner by night, the pleasure of
which cost her too dear. The faithful Moor, who would rather have died
than have given any real cause for his mistress’ suspicions, carefully
avoided, under various pretences, every proposition that was made to him
by Elvira for another interview, whose personal attractions were, in
reality, too alluring to be long trifled with with impunity.

In the mean time the masons had made an end of their work, and there
being now no longer any thing to apprehend from that quarter, Don Lewis
allowed the ladies the full liberty of walking in the garden when they
pleased. One day, as they were sitting with Don Rodrigo in an arbor, his
sister, who did not much mind him, and wished to accustom him to her
talking with Ambrosio, called that gardener as he was passing by, and
desired him to gather them some flowers. Donna Elvira wishing to detain
him, began to question him about his sufferings while a prisoner at
Granada; upon which Don Rodrigo requested Daraxa to converse for a short
time with him in the Moorish language, to see if he was well acquainted
with it. The beautiful Moor willingly consented to oblige Don Rodrigo in
this respect, and told him, that for a Spaniard he spoke it tolerably
well.

Don Rodrigo, who frequently amused himself by conversing with Ambrosio,
was so much pleased with his good sense and wit, which Ozmin could not
entirely conceal, that he thought he might make use of him to assist his
pretensions to Daraxa, and for this purpose admitted him more into his
confidence. He was now, therefore, the first to call him, without even
asking the ladies’ permission, allowed him to take a part in the
conversation, and was pleased to hear him talk in the Moorish language
with Daraxa. The happy Ambrosio, having become thus familiar with his
young master, never saw him enter the garden with the ladies but he ran
and joined them without ceremony; or if by chance he failed of doing it,
Donna Elvira went herself to look for him, and never returned without
him. Don Rodrigo, who was fully occupied with his own affairs, never
took any notice of these little inconsistencies, not in the least
imagining that his sister could fall in love with a servant. If,
however, Elvira only beheld Don Jaymé in Ambrosio, Daraxa beheld Ozmin
in Don Jaymé; every fresh proof, therefore, of her friend’s violent
passion for him, increased the uneasiness of this jealous Moor.

While all these things were going on at Don Lewis’s, the young Don
Alonso de Zuniga, more enamoured than ever, and being recovered of his
wound, began to get abroad again. He had heard that his mistress had
been entrusted by the Queen to Don Lewis’s care, with the greatest
regret, as well from his natural aversion for Don Rodrigo, as from a
jealousy of long standing between their families. Notwithstanding all
this, he felt that it was necessary for his peace of mind to obtain some
tidings, and even see her, if it were any way possible. For this
purpose, he employed some very able assistants, who won over one of
Donna Elvira’s women by means of a certain sum of money paid in advance.
This obliging damsel was no other than Claricia whom I have before
mentioned to you; who was born for the sole purpose of conducting love
intrigues, and was as likely as any one to succeed in cases that she
undertook. Don Alonso asked but one piece of service of her for his
money, which was, to procure him the pleasure of speaking to Daraxa.
Claricia promised wonders; and in the course of conversation she related
to him the full particulars of Elvira’s amour with Don Jaymé, who from
a nobleman of the city of Arragon had transformed himself into a
gardener to shew his excessive love for her.

This story, to which Don Alonso listened with the greatest attention,
much surprised him, and he was curious to know the most minute
circumstances of it. Of these Claricia was well able to inform him, and
she told him every thing that she herself knew on the subject. Thus she
was not able to tell him of the share that the beautiful Daraxa had in
this adventure. Alonso could not possibly conceive who this Don Jaymé
Vivez could be, of whom he had never heard, either at court or in the
army. He would willingly have made acquaintance and acted in conjunction
with him, to make a party of four, the mistresses of both, as he
conceived, being in the same house. This thought gave rise to many
others. He reproached himself that he had not been as courageous as Don
Jaymé, and also gained admission at Don Lewis’s under some disguise or
other, which would have procured him the opportunity of speaking with
Daraxa. His imagination grew upon this point, and he amused his mind by
forming a thousand designs on the subject.

Let us return to the ladies. Elvira, persuaded that it was not usual to
love merely for the sake of sighing, and that there must be an end to
every thing, resolved to be united to her dear Don Jaymé, who appeared
so worthy to possess her. But she felt considerable hesitation and
trouble in being the first to make such a proposal. It was a step that
revolted against propriety too much for her to think of. She reflected
that it would be much preferable to avail herself of the assistance and
mediation of her friend, by whom she considered herself sufficiently
beloved, to expect her service on such an occasion. She addressed
herself, therefore, to Daraxa, and besought her, in the strongest terms,
to undertake her cause for her.

Daraxa was now truly grieved; for she found that Elvira would willingly
consent to elope, and actually meditated a clandestine marriage. Having,
however, somewhat recovered herself, she said to her friend, “I am
disposed to do what you desire; but before I speak to Don Jaymé, my real
friendship will not permit me to dispense with this question: whether
you have well reflected on what you are daring to venture upon? No, no,”
added she, “you cannot have considered into how many troubles you must
infallibly plunge yourself. Suffer me to point out to you what you owe
to your family, as well as to yourself. You are willing to put yourself
in the power of a man of whom you know neither the birth nor fortune.
Can you, with any sort of prudence, rely on him so entirely as to make
such advances to him as are by no means suitable, under any
circumstances, to one of your noble birth? and if, unfortunately, as is
not impossible, these advances be not received agreeable to your wishes,
what shame and regret must follow so indiscreet a line of conduct!”

Judicious as these remonstrances were, Elvira only heard them with
impatience; and not being able to answer them with any good reasons, she
replied as one resolved, that her excessive love would permit her to
follow no other counsels than those of her own heart. When Daraxa saw
that there was no hope of diverting her from her design, she no longer
opposed her, but promised that she would make proposals to Don Jaymé
that very night. But she was somewhat discomposed when Elvira, either
from mistrust or wishing to have so good an opportunity of forming her
own opinion of the sentiments of the beloved object, said, that she
wished to be present herself, unknown to that cavalier, during the
conversation, and that she would conceal herself behind the curtain.
Nothing was now wanting but to desire Ambrosio to repair to the window
of the lower gallery at midnight, which the ladies requested by a letter
which they wrote to him in common, in which they sent him word that they
had something of the utmost importance to communicate.

He failed not to be there at the hour appointed, and was much surprised
to find Daraxa there alone. “Signor Don Jaymé,” said Daraxa, “I have, in
the first place, some ill news to tell you, which is, that I am here
alone. Your mistress wished me to have a private conversation with you,
on which depend her happiness and your own.” After this preface, the
cunning Moor glided her hand through the iron bars and pressed that of
Ozmin, who understood immediately that this interview was not without
mystery. Such was his quickness of penetration that he made a very
shrewd guess of what was the subject; and no sooner had Daraxa entered
upon the delicate proposals she had to make to him, than he knew well
what would follow; but, so far from being discomposed by it, he turned
every thing into raillery that was said or proposed to him. In vain did
Daraxa protest that she was speaking seriously, requesting him to answer
in the same serious manner; he still continued his tone of raillery
throughout.

Thus terminated this interview, to the satisfaction of Daraxa, who
rejoiced sincerely that it had ended in this manner, and who, thinking
that she had done her part, expected some acknowledgments from her
friend. But Elvira was more inclined to reproach than to compliment her.
In her ill humour she imputed to Daraxa all Don Jaymé’s ridicule,
whence she inferred that it was most imprudent to act by proxy in love,
when able to conduct one’s own cause, and made a vow that in future she
would trust her affairs to nobody, but use every means in her power to
induce Don Jaymé to elope with her.

She behaved to Daraxa the next morning in the same manner as usual. They
met without even mentioning what had passed the preceding evening, and
took their usual walk together in the evening, concealing from each
other their true sentiments, each occupied by her own meditations.

I have already told you that Don Rodrigo had discovered in Ambrosio a
man whom he thought likely to promote his interest with Daraxa, who had
hitherto only treated his professions of love with indifference. The
coldness of his constitution, however, was such, that this did not by
any means discourage him; not susceptible of violent love, the little
progress that he made in Daraxa’s favour caused him no trouble. The
advantage he possessed over his rivals, in seeing and conversing with
the beautiful Moor, was a pleasure that consoled him, though he knew he
was not the favoured lover. As he had not as yet acknowledged his
sentiments to Daraxa, otherwise than by any little attentions he had
paid her, and perceiving that she took pleasure in speaking the Moorish
language with Ambrosio, he determined to prevail upon this gardener to
declare his passion for her in that language; and Ambrosio accepted the
commission, promising his young master to perform it with all imaginable
zeal the first opportunity that should present itself, which occurred
the very same day.

The ladies, after having taken several turns about the garden, entered
the arbour in which they usually rested themselves. Ambrosio came up to
them with a basket of flowers; and Don Rodrigo desired him to make up
some nosegays, and at the same time made sign to Elvira to follow him,
as though he had something particular to communicate to her. The brother
and sister having left the arbour, Ozmin, finding himself alone with his
mistress, was beginning to speak to her in a tone of pleasantry in
favour of Don Rodrigo’s passion; but he perceived her melancholy
appearance and desisted. “Whence this sorrow, Madam?” said he, with a
countenance that betrayed his concern. “How happens it, that when I am
about to divert you by the performance of a part but little dissimilar
to that which you enacted towards me last night, I find you thus
evidently affected with grief?” A sigh from Daraxa was the only answer.
This redoubled Ozmin’s surprise and anxiety. “Speak,” cried he, “speak
to me, Daraxa, if you wish not to drive me to despair. What can your
silence and that sigh portend? They seem to announce more misfortunes
than I have as yet had any reason to fear.” The beautiful Moor at length
replied, that the peculiarity of their fortunes, and the daily crosses
they both met with, occasioned a sadness which she could not shake off.

Ozmin endeavoured to soothe her by representing that her courage ought
not to forsake her now, after having hitherto borne their misfortunes
with firmness; and assured her that he was much mortified in having been
obliged to shew some sort of complacency for Elvira’s blind passion for
him. He had no sooner uttered these words, than Daraxa burst into tears,
and said, in a voice frequently interrupted by violent sobbings, “that
alone, alas! overcomes my firmness, which is proof against all other
persecutions. What torment for a tender and delicate heart, to be
incessantly exposed to what is most likely to rend it in twain! Perhaps
I may, ere long, reproach myself for having had too great a confidence
in your fidelity.”

“Can I understand you rightly?” replied Ozmin, much affected: “_you_
think me capable of loving another: ah! Daraxa, can you, who know my
heart, do me such an injustice? you, who so well know my virtuous
sentiments as well as my abhorrence of infidelity.” “I would willingly
believe,” answered Daraxa, wiping away her tears, “that I am to blame
for being thus mistrustful; but I love you, Ozmin, and I cannot reflect
without pain on your attentions to Elvira: you would not have gone so
far, had they been equally painful to you. When I consider their
effects, I am still more alarmed; Elvira is more positive than ever that
she shall overcome your resistance by her perseverance. How then can I
feel convinced that you will not at last be wrought upon by her
excessive passion?” “I!” cried Ozmin, with transport; “be assured
that....” Here he was interrupted by Elvira, who at that instant ran
hastily into the arbour; and her brother joined them the next moment.

Ozmin did not expect them so soon, considering that Don Rodrigo would
have amused his sister much longer, under pretence of his wishing to
speak to her on some important business. Don Rodrigo had fully intended
this, but was unable to detain Elvira, who suddenly started from him,
for the purpose of interrupting Daraxa’s conversation with Don Jaymé.
The dumb scene that passed between these four persons gave rise to many
thoughts. Don Rodrigo and his sister observed that Daraxa appeared much
dejected; they even thought that she must have been crying, upon which
they each formed different opinions. As for Ozmin, as he had nothing
more to do in the arbour, and as he only personated Ambrosio, it was
easy for him to escape from this awkward situation by retiring.

Don Rodrigo quickly followed him, and full of impatience to learn what
had passed between him and Daraxa, whom he began to suspect strongly of
some extraordinary understanding together, he asked him whether he had
acquitted himself of his commission, and whether he had any good tidings
to communicate. “My Lord,” answered Ambrosio, “you allowed me so short a
time to converse with the beautiful Moor, that it has not been possible
for me to render you any important service.” “I grant,” replied Don
Rodrigo, “that you cannot have had a very long discourse with her, but
you must needs have made good use of that time; since Daraxa appears to
be so much moved by what you have imparted to her, that I am well
convinced she must even have been shedding tears.” “Those tears,”
replied the false gardener, “may possibly have been the bitter fruits
of the liberty I took in speaking to her of your passion, with which she
was perhaps not well pleased.”

“Have you no better reasons than these to tell me?” cried Don Rodrigo.
“No, my Lord,” said Ambrosio; “I shall merely add that this lady’s heart
may probably be already engaged. A young lady who has been educated in
so gallant a Court as that of Granada may, very likely, have become
sensible to the sighs of some nobleman of that country.” “I agree with
you,” replied the jealous Don Rodrigo sharply; “and, moreover, I think
your object in being here is less to serve me than that happy rival.”
“You do me an injustice,” replied the gardener; “you wrong me much by
suspecting that I would betray you for an Infidel.” “Infidel or
Christian,” cried Don Rodrigo imperatively; “I begin to suspect you; you
are rather too wise for a gardener; and when I call to mind all your
interesting little Moorish discourses together, I am the more confirmed
in my suspicions. But look to it,” added he in a menacing tone; “you are
in a family where knaveries are not long concealed.” Having thus said,
he returned to the arbour to the ladies, who still preserved the most
profound silence. No sooner had he arrived, than they rose and retired
to their own apartments.

Don Rodrigo, who at that time felt no desire to enter into conversation
with them, allowed them to depart without any observation, and walked
round the garden alone. Soon after this he met his father, who was
diverting himself with looking over his flowers, and he stopped to bear
him company. Don Lewis was speaking to Ambrosio, professing himself well
satisfied with his attention and skill in the culture of his flowers.
“He is possibly more skilful than is to be wished,” said Don Rodrigo,
with an affected grin; “and, if I am not deceived, understands more
than one employment.” The old Marquis, whose attention was entirely
engrossed in looking over his parterre, did not at first comprehend the
meaning of his son’s remark, and answered, without reflection, “It is
true that Ambrosio is not deficient in sense, and I am convinced that I
shall find him a very useful servant.” “I very much doubt that he is
here with that intention,” replied Don Rodrigo; “at least I am persuaded
that others will have better reason than you to be satisfied with his
services. Shall I tell you my sentiments? I am of opinion that he is
more devoted to Daraxa’s interests than to your’s; or at least that he
is the agent of some one of that lady’s lovers.”

“Ah! my son,” interrupted Don Lewis laughing heartily, “I am now
convinced that you are really in love.” “If I am,” said Don Rodrigo, “I
can assure you that my love assists me to see instead of blinding me. I
can believe my own eyesight.” “What have you seen then?” cried the old
man; “tell me distinctly: for you shall find that I am Don Lewis de
Padilla, son of Don Gaspar, who was reckoned the most difficult to be
deceived among men in the age in which he lived; and I also have had the
honour to be told a hundred times that I am even more prudent and
circumspect than my father. If the choice that the Queen made of me to
take charge of the beautiful Moor is not sufficient to make you easy
upon this subject, inquire of the wisest persons at Court, whether I am
a man to be imposed on. In a word, son, I am turned of fifty; and if,
when I was only half that age, they had brought me not merely an
Arragonian, but even the most cunning fellow among the Greeks, it would
only have been necessary for me to look at him attentively for one
moment to have penetrated the inmost recesses of his soul.”

“My Lord,” replied Don Rodrigo, “no one on earth is more persuaded than
I am of the truth of what you say; but yet I cannot but think that this
Ambrosio only serves you to have the means of making himself useful to
another. He makes himself too familiar with Daraxa; as soon as he sees
her he addresses her in the Moorish language, which she always answers
in so complaisant a manner that I am convinced they have been long
acquainted. In short, I would not swear but that Ambrosio is any thing
rather than a gardener.” Don Lewis, instead of allowing that he could
possibly have been deceived on this occasion, became enraged with spite
at seeing himself suspected of having been made a dupe of. “You are a
strange man!” said he to his son. “Why did you allow these liberties of
which you complain? Do you not know that it is a capital crime among us
for a servant to lift his eyes towards his mistress? Do you but treat
this servant like the rest, and I will be answerable for his fidelity.
In regard to Daraxa, trust me to take proper care of her. Rest in peace;
I am on the watch night and day, and am well informed of every thing
that passes in the family.” Respect kept Don Rodrigo silent, who quitted
his father shortly after this, to wait on some one who desired to speak
to him.

After he had left him, the old Marquis, in spite of what he had been
just saying, fell into a deep musing, and a thousand vexatious
reflections occurred to him, which filled his mind with suspicions. To
complete his present troubles his chief gardener came up to him and
said, “My Lord, I have something of importance to communicate to you. I
heard such a noise in the garden last night, that I am convinced there
were several people round your house. Had I dared to have quitted my
own, contrary to your orders, I should be better able to tell you more
on the subject.” “People in my garden at night!” cried Don Lewis
astonished; “they must have come from your lodge then.” “No, my Lord,”
answered the master gardener; “Ambrosio and my servant have not the
power of leaving the house, the door of which I am most particular in
shutting every night, and never trust the key out of my own hands.”

The old Marquis knew not what to think. “Who can have entered my
garden?” said he to himself; “and what motives can they have had? I am
in no fear of thieves; the height of the wall is sufficient to deter
them. I cannot imagine it to be one of Daraxa’s lovers, who surely could
not be so fool-hardy as to expose himself to so great danger for the
sake of merely seeing her from a window. My gardener must certainly have
fancied all this, or the noise must have proceeded from some of my own
servants. If I have reason to suspect any one, it is that knave
Ambrosio, in respect of whom my son may be more in the right than I
chose to allow.”

Don Lewis, who was very uneasy under these thoughts, ordered his
gardener not to mention a syllable of the matter either to Ambrosio or
his other servant, but to keep a strict watch that very night; and if
they chanced to hear any more noise, to discharge a musket, and sally
out at the same time well armed. “For my own part,” added the Marquis,
“I shall myself, with the rest of my servants, be also prepared; and the
wretches who wish either to rob or dishonour me, will be cunning indeed
if they escape us all.” After having thus issued his orders, he withdrew
to prepare for the mighty feat that he contemplated.

If the two ladies, Don Lewis, and Don Rodrigo, were thus uneasy, Ozmin
was not without his share. He was not one who was easily alarmed; but
his rival’s last words to him seemed to deserve some attention, in
order to prevent, if possible, any ill that might accrue to him. He had
no weapon but a poniard, with which it was not possible to defend
himself against thirty servants that were employed in the family, should
they attempt to attack him. From what he observed, he felt convinced
that some misfortune was at hand: he had seen the two Padillas speaking
together with earnestness, and had afterwards remarked the serious
conversation between Don Lewis and the chief gardener. From all these
circumstances he did not doubt that he was the subject of their
discourse; so that, foreseeing that some cowardly and wicked attempt
upon his life was to be dreaded, he resolved to leave the place as soon
as he had communicated his intention to Daraxa, and concerted measures
with her to see each other again at the Queen’s return.

Having formed this resolution, he walked towards the place where the
letters from the ladies were usually brought, and found one lying there
from Elvira, who sent him word that she should expect to see him that
night, as she had something very particular to impart to him. He little
thought that Elvira appointed this interview with him unknown to the
beautiful Moor, to have the opportunity of conversing with him in
private. He conceived that Daraxa would also be there as usual, and that
he might communicate to her in their own language, even in the presence
of her friend, what he wished her to know previous to their separation.
But let us leave Ozmin until the time appointed for this interview, and
return to notice the alarming preparations that were making by Don Lewis
to interrupt it.

He caused all the arms, offensive and defensive, that could be found in
the house, to be carried by two faithful domestics into his own
apartment, such as muskets, musketoons, pistols, halberts, pikes,
partizans, helmets, and targets; the whole of them covered with rust;
but the danger was too near at hand to think of having them cleaned. One
would have thought, from the active and terrible preparations that were
going forward, that it was at least apprehended that the enemy was
advancing to take the house by assault; for though Don Lewis had never
been himself in the wars, yet, being son and grandson to general
officers, he would not have it said that he knew nothing of the matter.
He dispatched one of his most trusty servants to purchase powder and
ball sufficient to load about seventeen or eighteen fire-arms, which he
designed to entrust to some of the bravest of his domestics. All these
preparations were made without any noise, being aware that great
undertakings required secrecy. Every thing was so well conducted, that
he even managed to conceal his designs from his son and daughter, on
account of their affection for Daraxa, who had not the least suspicion
of what was going forward.

When he had thus arranged everything agreeably to his desire, and the
clock had struck eleven, his two confidential servants brought up all
the other domestics, whom he posted in different places, distributing
the arms among them according as he judged each able to make use of
them. He disposed of the greater part of them in the highest rooms in
the house, whence they commanded a view of the garden, and were
themselves out of sight; and he forbade them from firing without first
apprising him of whatever they might see. He placed himself in a closet
directly opposite Daraxa’s chamber, choosing this post for himself as
one that particularly required his immediate vigilance and attention. He
was accompanied by his equerry, an old servant, whose bravery was equal
to his master’s, and who, from the bottom of his heart, wished all the
disturbers of his sleep at the devil. But the die was cast; and, since
posted on bivouac duty, they could not now in honour retreat until they
had fully ascertained that there was nothing to be feared from the
enemy.

The old Marquis, in his night-gown, night-cap, and slippers, with a dark
lantern in his hand, was most attentively on the watch at the window. It
was one of those clear star-light nights so common in hot countries;
from which circumstance they soon discovered the shadow of a man, at the
distance of about two hundred paces. No sooner did Don Lewis hear the
clock strike twelve, than, recollecting that it was at about that hour
his gardener had heard the noise the preceding night, his heart began to
beat most violently, and he was seized with a cold shivering in all his
limbs. This agitation, which sufficiently betrayed the feelings of his
soul in time of danger, was by no means diminished when he thought that
he could perceive somebody walking along the wall on the side next the
gallery. To be more convinced that he was not mistaken, he pointed to
the place that his equerry might also look, and asked him if he saw any
thing; but he, either that his sight was really not so good as his
master’s, or through fear, persisted in asserting that he saw nothing.

They were both, however, soon released from doubt by two of their
sentinels coming up to apprise them that there was a man conversing, at
the gallery window, with some person within the house. Don Lewis was the
more astonished at this information, having all the keys of the house in
his own possession. These were brought to him every night at nine
o’clock; so that he could not possibly conceive who it could be that was
supporting the conversation either from within or without, but could
think of no other but Daraxa, whom one of her lovers must have come to
visit at midnight through the assistance of one of the servants that he
had bribed to introduce him into the garden, and that she must have
procured another key for the gallery door by means of the same agent.
This conjecture appeared the most probable. He desired all his followers
to be in readiness, and formed the bold design of beginning the
expedition himself, by surprising the beautiful Moor, so that she could
not deny her crime. It is true, that, not daring to venture alone upon
so over-bold a project, he took with him two of the most resolute of his
musketeers, and his intrepid equerry before mentioned.

To make as little noise as possible our commander threw off his
slippers, and the others their shoes, in which state they arrived at the
gallery, the door of which they found open. Don Lewis advanced until he
heard the voices; he then made a stand, to listen to what was said, and
overheard the following words: “I have too much esteem for you to
resolve to make you unhappy: It behoves me to consider your high birth,
and you should reflect on the present condition of my fortune. I am a
Cavalier who must seek to make my fortune at Court, where I have need of
support. Who then would befriend me after having drawn upon myself the
hatred of so powerful a lord as your father? let us not, therefore, do
any thing of which we may repent as long as we live.”

The Marquis immediately knew the voice of the pretended Ambrosio; and
notwithstanding the spite which he felt towards him for having thus
duped him, he could not but admire his virtue and prudence on this
occasion. Thinking that this discourse was addressed to Daraxa, he was
not a little curious to hear her answer. But how was he shocked, when he
heard his own daughter, whose voice he could not mistake, reply to the
cavalier in these words: “Can love reason thus? have you scrupled to
deceive my father by a stratagem which subjects you to many dangers?
have you then come hither at the risk of your life, merely to lose such
precious time in teaching me my duty? instead of abandoning yourself to
the joy with which my favourable sentiments ought to have inspired you,
you are the one to throw difficulties in their way: I did not expect so
cold an acknowledgement of your gratitude. Can the consideration of
fortune withhold you, when I declare that the summit of all my desires
is to be your’s? Why need you fear my father? the Court of Ferdinand is
not the only Court in which a man of your merit may expect advancement.
But may you ever seek in vain to establish yourself advantageously in
any Court! Elvira would ever prefer living with you in the most obscure
retreat, to the greatest pomp and splendor that can be conferred on her
by her union with another.”

She was going on thus, when a musket was discharged, followed in a
moment by ten or twelve others, with the reports of which the gallery
resounded. This dreadful noise so frightened the daughter of Don Lewis,
that thinking of nothing but her fears she immediately betook herself to
flight. But her father who had way-laid her in the passage, seizing her
suddenly by the arm: “Is it thus,” said he, “wretched girl, that you
dishonour the illustrious blood of Padilla?” At the voice and action of
the Marquis, Donna Elvira, whose spirits were but too much troubled by
the first shock, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell into her father’s
arms, who, finding that she remained quite senseless, opened his
dark-lantern to look at her, and she seemed to him in so deplorable a
condition, that in spite of his anger he was much affected. He really
loved her: but not being able to bear the sight any longer without
relenting, he left her in the care of his equerry.

But the more he was touched with compassion at the sight of his daughter
in such a state, the more eager did he feel to take revenge on the
insolent author of all this disorder. He now longed only for Ambrosio’s
death, whose prudence he had but a moment before been applauding. He
assembled all his men of arms, tucked up his night-gown, over which he
put on his armour, a helmet over his night-cap, with a target on his
left arm, and a long pike in his right hand; and this brave captain in
his slippers and gauntlets, caused the garden gate to be thrown open,
through which his troop defiled three abreast: the musketeers marched
first, and the halberdeers brought up the rear, followed by the Marquis
himself. This little army, composed of soldiers worthy of their captain,
went in search of the enemy: during their march they were reinforced by
the gardener, who joined them with a small sword at his side, an
arquebuse on his shoulder, and two pistols in his belt. He assured them
that he had seen the enemy, and that there were two of them, and that if
he had dared to have disobeyed his master’s orders, he should have fired
upon them. Don Lewis was astonished at this information, and having
learnt which way they went, ordered his troop to take that direction.

What had become of Ozmin all this while? As soon as he perceived that
Elvira had taken flight at the report of the fire-arms which had
interrupted their conversation, and which he found had not been levelled
at him, he retreated precipitately from the gallery with the intention
of taking shelter in an arbour, where he determined to sell his life
dearly, if attacked. But a man who followed close behind him obliged him
to stop, saying: “Signor Don Jaymé, you have need of assistance;
accept, therefore, of mine: it is you for whom they are searching;
accept my services without delay, if you do not wish to be assassinated
by a troop of rascally servants, who will shortly rush upon you.”

Ozmin, as much surprised at hearing himself styled Don Jaymé, as at
meeting with so obliging a stranger, answered: “I know not who you are,
nor why you interest yourself in my behalf; but whoever you be, you
cannot but be a Cavalier of great worth: I will request the loan of some
of your arms, having but a poniard to defend myself with; but can accept
of no other assistance from you, without abusing your extreme kindness.
I can by no means suffer so brave a man to expose his life for my sake.”
“No, no,” replied the unknown, “do not imagine that I will leave you to
perish, when I may render you assistance. I have two good pistols, one
of which is at your service, and I will fight at your side; or, if you
wish me to retire, you must accompany me.” “I believe,” said Ozmin,
“that it will be the wiser way. We shall get no great honour in
employing our valour against such rascals. But how can we quit the
garden?” “That you shall see,” replied the stranger, “you have only to
follow me.”

These two Cavaliers then ran together to that part of the garden where
the wall had been repaired, against which was erected a long ladder.
They had here some slight difference as to who should first ascend, each
yielding the precedence to the other. After many compliments which two
such courageous men could not fail to make on such an occasion, Ozmin
was prevailed on to ascend first, to complete the noble behaviour of his
companion. The _Gendarmerie_ of Don Lewis had taken quite an opposite
direction, so that they had abundance of time to get over the wall by
means of this ladder, which they drew up after them to prevent the
Marquis from ascertaining in what manner the pretended Ambrosio had
escaped his fury. On the other side of the wall was another ladder by
which they descended into the street, and which was guarded by five or
six stout footmen well armed, who had been kept in readiness to throw
themselves into the garden on the first signal. Ozmin, judging from this
that his generous friend was not a man of common rank, requested to be
informed to whom he was so much obliged. But the unknown gentleman
answered that he would explain this to him at his house. “As you are a
stranger,” added he, “you cannot be aware what sort of a man Don Lewis
is, of whom, I assure you, you cannot be too cautious. I make you an
offer, therefore, of my house, where you will be secure from his
resentment by remaining with me, until we see in what manner the
Padillas resolve to prosecute this affair.”

Ozmin was charmed with the generous and noble manner in which this offer
was made, and not being able to resist the earnest entreaties of the
Cavalier to accept of his house, accompanied him thither. When they
beheld each other by the light of the flambeaux, they each looked at the
other with an attention mingled with surprise, as if they thought they
had met somewhere before. The master of the house was the first to
distinguish Ozmin, by an imperfect recollection that he had of his
features; and being convinced that he was not mistaken, he cried with
transport, embracing him: “what happiness do I experience in thus
meeting a man to whom I owe my life! I cannot be mistaken: you must be
he who preserved me from the fury of the bull on the last day of the
sports.” “My lord,” answered the Moor, smiling with a modest air, “you
have now well repaid me for that service in retrieving me from a danger,
in which, without your assistance, I must inevitably have perished.”
“No, no,” replied Don Alonso de Zuniga, “I am still in arrears with you.
At the very time that you rescued me from certain death, I had given you
but little cause to expose your own life for the preservation of mine.”

They passed the remainder of the night in conversing together. Don
Alonso, who had no doubt that Ozmin was really Don Jaymé Vivez, and that
he was enamoured of Donna Elvira, related to him in what manner he had
heard of his intrigue. “This made me desire,” added he, “to form an
acquaintance with you, to commence which was the object of my entering
Don Lewis’s garden to-night. Besides which, as I love Daraxa, the
intimate friend of your mistress, I considered that our friendship
might become useful to both our loves.”

Although Ozmin felt great repugnance in concealing his real sentiments,
he did not wish to undeceive Don Alonso, thinking it more prudent to
pass for Don Jaymé. After a long conversation, Zuniga conducted his
guest to the apartment that was prepared for him, and leaving him to his
rest, retired also to his own. But Ozmin not being able to sleep, sent
for Orviedo as soon as it was day, to impart to this faithful servant
his last night’s adventure, as well as to desire him to bring him some
apparel more suitable than Ambrosio’s to support the character of Don
Jaymé.

It is a misfortune to which all great houses that keep a number of
servants are liable, that whatever happens cannot long remain a secret.
The story of the pretended Ambrosio was known all over the town the very
next day, where it was related in various ways; but all at the expence
of Donna Elvira; at which Ozmin was extremely mortified.

Don Alonso and Ozmin became in a few days the best friends in the world;
sympathy seemed to attach them to each other, or rather, they each made
daily discoveries of the other’s amiable qualities. They were both most
anxious to know how things went on at the Marquis de Padilla’s. This
they could only learn from Claricia, from whom they received no tidings;
for this servant, who was known to be most in Elvira’s confidence, was
more strictly watched than the others. She managed, however, at length
to elude their vigilance, and brought Don Jaymé a letter at Don
Alonso’s, containing the detail they so ardently longed for. Claricia
informed Vivez that his old patron, enraged that the pretended Ambrosio
had escaped his fury, had employed ten or a dozen men to go through
Seville in search of him, who till then had sought him in vain: that
Elvira was very ill, and that Daraxa had also been much indisposed from
the share she took in her friend’s affliction: that, lastly, Don Lewis
was so much ashamed and vexed at the whole affair, that he would see
nobody, but had made up his mind to retire into the country until all
these unpleasant rumors had blown over.

Claricia’s letter was a fresh topic of conversation for the two
Cavaliers, and amused Don Alonso exceedingly, who, having no regard for
the house of Padilla, was delighted at the recital of this adventure.
Ozmin having so good an opportunity of giving some account of himself to
Daraxa, wrote her a very long letter in the Moorish language, which he
sent by Claricia. Daraxa, who was most anxious on his account, fearing
that he had been wounded by the many musket shots which, as she thought,
had been fired at him, was overjoyed to hear of his good luck, and that
she might now have the means of returning him an answer by the same
messenger.

A few days after this, the old Marquis set out with his family and all
his servants, for a country house of his own at about a league beyond
Seville. This would have proved very vexatious to Ozmin, who feared that
by this absence he should be deprived of Claricia, whose mediation was
so great an advantage to him, had not Don Alonso consoled him by saying;
“we ought to rejoice at Don Lewis’s being in the country. Within about
two miles from his house, I have a pretty little seat which I visit
occasionally. We have nothing to do but to get there as privately as
possible. We shall find it more easy to obtain accounts of our
mistresses there, than in this city, and may even find occasional
opportunities of seeing and conversing with them.”

Vivez was much pleased with this design, and the two friends left
Seville the next morning before day light, accompanied by Orviedo and
two footmen only. As soon as they arrived at Don Alonso’s country house,
the young lord employed a sharp peasant lad to deliver a letter into
Claricia’s own hands, by which she was apprized that the following day
she would meet in the wood, which is about two hundred paces from the
Marquis’s house, two young shepherds who were dying with desire to have
a little chat with her.

Claricia, who was not now so strictly watched as she had been in the
city, soon found an opportunity of stealing out of the house, and ran to
the place appointed, where she found Don Alonso and Don Jaymé dressed as
peasants. She informed them that the ladies were both well, but so
completely prisoners, that they were scarcely permitted to walk in the
garden. “However,” continued she, “if Don Lewis go to-morrow to a farm
of his about three leagues off, on an affair of consequence which
requires his presence, I think I may be able to obtain you an interview
with them. Don Rodrigo,” added she, “has just set out for Seville, and
is not expected back for two days.”

If the Cavaliers were charmed at the flattering prospect that Claricia
held out to them, she was equally well pleased with the presents that
she received as a recompence for her attention. After having taken leave
of them, she returned to the house, and communicated to the ladies the
particulars of the conversation she had just had with the young
nobleman.

The next morning, every thing seemed propitious to the lovers’ wishes:
the Marquis set out for his farm, and the ladies prepared to profit by
so favorable an opportunity. They dressed themselves as peasant girls,
in conformity with the disguises of their lovers, and left the house
attended by Claricia and Laida. They soon reached the wood, where their
shepherds were already waiting for them, and met with joyful
congratulations at seeing each other again; after which they laughed and
amused themselves exceedingly by looking at each other in their several
fantastical disguises. Parties of this sort generally create a vast deal
of pleasure; but do not always end so pleasantly as they begin.

They were conversing on general subjects, which was rendered more
agreeable to each by being with those whom they loved, and were
proceeding to penetrate into the more private walks of the grove, when
they perceived through the trees two real peasants coming towards them.
They conceived them to be inhabitants of a neighbouring town which
formed part of the Marquis’s manor, and they were right in their
conjecture. As these countrymen passed by, the ladies turned their backs
upon them, that they might not see their faces, and Vivez and Zuniga
followed their example for the same reason; but the fellows instead of
passing on, made a full stand; and one of them gave Don Alonso so
furious a blow with a cudgel, upon his back and head, as almost stunned
him. Ozmin having heard the blow, turned about instantly upon the other
fellow who was preparing to serve him in the same manner; but the Moor,
from his excessive quickness, warded off the blow that was intended for
his head, so that it slid down his back; after which he struck his
adversary so tremendous a blow, with a large stick that he carried,
directly on his face, that he broke half his jaw and laid him senseless
on the ground: then flew to the assistance of his friend, who stood much
in need of it, for he was hard put to it by his antagonist. But this
rascal knew better than to await the coming up of a man who had just
made his comrade bite the dust; he ran off towards the town, where he
put them all in alarm, by giving out that his companion was killed,
who, in fact, was only wounded.

During this skirmish, the ladies very prudently took flight, and
returned to Don Lewis’s house in the greatest alarm, and most anxious to
know how this affair would end. Their uneasiness was not ill-founded;
for the Cavaliers, who would have acted wisely in decamping as quickly
as possible, remained so long on the scene of action consulting upon
what was best to be done, that they afforded sufficient time for three
ruffians from the town to rush upon them with drawn swords. One of these
fellows, who was superior to the others both in point of appearance and
courage, came up before the rest, and advancing towards Ozmin in a most
determined manner, endeavoured to run him through the body, but the Moor
received the thrust in the most skilful manner with his stick, and
returned him so terrible a blow on the head that it laid him lifeless at
his feet; then seizing the sword which his enemy had made so bad a use
of, he was prepared to receive the two others, who presently attacked
him. This combat lasted longer than either that had preceded it. Ozmin
being assailed by two men at once, was fully engaged in parrying their
several thrusts, one of which wounded him slightly in the hand. Don
Alonso did not stand idle all this time, but laid about him so furiously
with his stick, that he at length decided the victory, by a chance blow
which fell with such force on the right arm of one of their antagonists
that he dropped his sword, and immediately fled with his companion
towards the town as precipitately as their wounds would admit of.

Our Conquerors, not content with the punishment they had already
inflicted, were so imprudent as to pursue them to the very entrance of
the town, where they met with a storm which was just ready to burst upon
them. All the inhabitants, having heard that a peasant had been killed
in the wood, were up in arms, some with cudgels and clubs pointed with
iron, and others with old swords, fully determined to avenge his death.
Their rage increased, when the two fugitives came up and informed them
that the Bailiff’s son had just shared the same fate as the countryman.
They advanced in a body, and surrounded the supposed murderers, falling
upon them without mercy. Ozmin, whose courage was rather increased than
damped by the appearance of so many enemies, opposed their rage most
resolutely, dealing his blows on all sides, and overthrowing all that
resisted him. This somewhat moderated the fury of the rest. Don Alonso,
although wounded, followed his example with equal valor. It was,
however, impossible to resist so unequal a force, and he was taken
prisoner; soon after which, his friend, whom the mob endeavoured to
throw down by hurling their staves between his legs, was unfortunate
enough to stumble, and was also secured.

I leave you to judge whether the enraged multitude would have spared
these two unfortunate Cavaliers who were now completely at their mercy.
But as chance would have it, two gentlemen came up just at that moment
on horseback, accompanied by three or four servants, who wishing to know
the cause of this tumult, broke through the crowd, sword in hand, until
they reached the two prisoners, in one of whom they recognized Don
Alonso, notwithstanding his disguise, and though his face was covered
with blood, and rescued him, with great difficulty, from the hands of
the mob, who in consequence became more careful to secure their other
prisoner, against whom they bore the greater malice.

Zuniga, observing this, refused to accompany his deliverers, declaring
that he had rather share his friend’s fate than abandon him in this
manner. But the two gentlemen represented to him that it were a
fruitless attempt to endeavour to release that Cavalier, who was now
actually shut up in the Bailiff’s house, who kept all the inhabitants
still up in arms, exciting them to avenge his son’s death: that it were
wiser, in their opinion, to assemble all the friends that they could get
together; and return in the night to release him from prison. Don Alonso
yielded to this advice, and was soon assured of the assistance of above
forty persons, masters, as well as servants, and this bold design would
undoubtedly have been executed, had not the Bailiff suspected something
of the kind; but this magistrate, who was an experienced cunning old
rascal, expected some such violence, and therefore applied to the chief
justice of Seville, who sent him so numerous a company of guards, that
he no longer feared any attempt to release his prisoner.

The ladies were not at so great a distance from this scene of confusion
as to be long ignorant of the particulars of the battle, and the sad
result of it. They obtained their information from some of the Marquis’s
servants, many of whom had been to the town out of curiosity, where they
learnt all that had passed. Donna Elvira dispatched one of them to the
Bailiff, desiring him to take care how he treated the Cavalier whom he
had in custody, lest he should repent of it. This recommendation was not
entirely thrown away; for Don Jaymé was treated better than he would
otherwise have been, and furnished with every thing that was necessary
to cure two or three slight wounds which he had received.

If the Bailiff was mortified at seeing his intentions to avenge his
son’s death, likely to be frustrated by Elvira, how was he rejoiced when
the very same evening he had the consolation to learn that the Marquis
participated in his resentment. Don Lewis, in his way home from his
farm, passed through the town towards the evening, and observing that a
majority of the inhabitants were in arms, he inquired for what purpose
they were thus assembled. The late adventure was consequently related to
him, and as he wished to know the full particulars, the most
considerable person among the mob addressed himself to him: “All this
misfortune,” said he, “has arisen merely from a mistake of our Bailiff’s
son who was in love with a young girl belonging to your family, and had
a rival who was the son of a rich farmer in the environs. The Bailiff’s
son was naturally of a debauched character and of a very violent
disposition, and finding that his rival, who was of a more sober
character and richer than himself, was always more welcome, he sent him
word that he would have him well cudgelled if he were ever again found
in the neighbourhood of your house with the view of speaking with his
mistress. He caused him to be observed, and having been informed this
morning that two men who had not the appearance of common peasants,
though dressed as such, had slipped into the wood as if by stealth, he
doubted not that it was the farmer’s son, with a young fellow of his
acquaintance who generally accompanied him in these visits, and that
they were thus disguised to avoid the drubbing they had been threatened
with; with this impression he employed two of the strongest fellows in
the town to conceal themselves in the wood to put his threat in
execution; and he himself followed with two of his friends, in order to
assist them, if necessary.”

The Marquis saw plainly by this recital, that the Bailiff’s son only was
to blame, and that those whom they called his murderers had killed him
in their own defence; but when he was informed that these two Cavaliers
were no other than Don Alonso de Zuniga and the pretended Ambrosio, and
that the Bailiff held the latter in his custody, he began to consider
that this adventure was ordained by Heaven to afford him an opportunity
of being avenged on his daughter’s seducer. He called the Bailiff before
him and excited him to pursue this affair with warmth, assuring him of
the protection of his influence and purse, and advising him to repair to
Seville the next morning, accompanied by all the relatives of the
deceased, as well as those of the wounded, and there throw themselves at
the feet of the magistrates, crying aloud for Justice. The Bailiff
resolved to follow this advice, and accordingly conducted his prisoner
to that city the following day, escorted by the guards and some of the
most resolute peasants belonging to the town. When the people of Seville
saw him thus brought up, and knew the cause, they were so enraged that
it was with great difficulty that the unfortunate Moor was preserved
from their fury. In addition to this, Don Lewis arrived the same day in
the city, thinking his presence necessary to engage the Judges to
condemn a man whose destruction he had sworn.

On the other hand Don Alonso was unfortunately so ill of his wounds that
he could scarcely sit on horseback, nor indeed had he yet been able to
assemble a sufficient number of his friends to undertake to deliver
Ozmin by force. Thus, reduced to solicit on his behalf, he implored each
of the Judges separately to consider that they could not in justice
condemn a man to death, whose only crime was that of having defended
himself against assassins. In answer to this he was told, that he ought
to be well contented that he himself was not secured and prosecuted:
that the blood which had been spilt demanded justice, and that if he
were in the prisoner’s place, they could not possibly be able to save
him. The death of Ozmin appeared inevitable and near at hand; but in
spite of all the endeavours of Don Lewis to hasten it, it was deferred
by an incident which that nobleman little expected. He received a
courier express from the Queen who informed him of the capture of the
city of Granada, and ordered him to repair to her instantly with Daraxa,
whose father was most anxious to see her, who having himself determined
to become a Christian, hoped that his daughter would not refuse to
follow so good an example.

There was also a packet of letters for Daraxa, but the Marquis judged it
most proper to withhold them from her; and did not even communicate the
news contained in his own, lest in her impatience of returning to her
parents, she should oblige him to set off with her the very next day for
Granada. He wished to see the prosecution of Don Jaymé closed by a
sentence of death, and even to be present at his execution before his
departure. For this purpose he redoubled his efforts and solicitations,
in which he succeeded so effectually with the Judges that they condemned
Ozmin to be beheaded two days afterwards, under the name of Don Jaymé,
Gentleman of Arragon.

Zuniga was among the first that were informed of this severe sentence,
of which he apprised the ladies by letter, assuring them, at the same
time, that he had assembled above three hundred men, and that he and his
friends would all perish, rather than suffer such an injustice. What
words can express the affliction of the beautiful Moor? The idea of the
ignominious treatment that was preparing for her dear Ozmin almost drove
her mad. In the midst of her despair she met Don Lewis, at his return
from the palace, where he had spent the whole of the morning. She cast
upon him a furious and piercing look, and said, with such transport as
sufficiently evinced the disorder of her mind: “Barbarian! are you now
satisfied? Unjust and cowardly Judges have consented without shame to
gratify your resentment at the expence of innocence. But think not that
the blood of this cavalier, who is thus injured and oppressed by your
influence and suggestions, shall be shed with impunity. He is my lover,
and my husband; a relation of the King of Granada; and not the gallant
of your daughter, for whom such a man was never destined. Your head
shall answer to me for his; for there are those among his relations, or
my own, who will have vengeance; or, if you escape their resentment, I
myself will strike the poniard to your heart.”

Don Lewis was thunderstruck at these impassioned exclamations, which
showed but too clearly Daraxa’s interest in the life of the prisoner. He
knew not what to reply, so overwhelmed was he with trouble and
confusion. He at length, however, told her, that she was much to blame
for not having sooner informed him of the quality of the pretended
Ambrosio, against whom he did not deny that he had solicited, conceiving
that he had disgraced his house. Daraxa was proceeding to assure him
that it was not the fault of Ozmin if Elvira had conceived a foolish
love for him, but at that moment a servant entered the room, and
whispered to the Marquis that there were several equipages at the gate,
and a great number of Moors, who asked to speak with Daraxa. Don Lewis
was somewhat troubled at this news, and apologized for being obliged to
leave her for an instant. As Daraxa had not heard what the servant had
whispered, and wished to know everything that happened in her present
anxious state, she followed the Marquis and entered a parlour, where
from the window she perceived some Moors whom she knew at the gate, for
the most part servants of her father. This sight beguiled her of her
troubles for awhile, and joy took possession of her heart, when Don
Lewis entered the room conducting one of her father’s officers into her
presence, who, having paid his respects to her, announced the capture of
the city of Granada, and that the war was at an end. He informed her at
the same time that her father, having obtained permission of their
Catholic Majesties to recall her home, had sent her an equipage and
followers suitable to a person of her high birth: that she must
doubtless be already informed of all these particulars by the courier
the Queen had dispatched to the Marquis de Padilla, and by the letters
she must have received. This was a fresh cause of confusion to the
Marquis, who was obliged to frame all sorts of excuses to Daraxa for not
having before put her in possession of them.

The joy of the beautiful Moor lasted no longer than the time that was
occupied in communicating to her the wishes of her father. The thoughts
respecting Ozmin, and the extreme danger he was in, soon renewed her
grief. This afflicted lover dispatched the officer, and Orviedo by whom
he was accompanied, to demand a public audience for her of the Judges,
who were at that moment deliberating upon advices they had just received
that Don Alonso’s house was filling with cavaliers who were arrived from
the country to second him in his design to rescue his friend. To prevent
this enterprise, the Judges had just resolved to have the culprit put to
death that night in prison.

They were much surprised at Daraxa’s request, never having known an
instance of a woman coming in ceremony before them, to address the
Judges, and they knew not what answer to return. The oldest among them
were of opinion that she ought not to be allowed an audience, but the
younger ones were of a different way of thinking. The curiosity to know
what she could have to say to them--the respect they were bound to
entertain for a lady who was so great a favourite with the Queen, and,
above all, the pleasure of seeing her, at last prevailed; and they
decided that an audience should be granted her at six in the evening.
Daraxa, who was apprehensive that this would have been refused her, was
well pleased at this message. She sent Orviedo to Don Alonso, apprising
him of her intentions, and requesting him to accompany her to the
palace, if his health would allow him to do her this favor. Zuniga was
extremely charmed with the honor conferred upon him by the beautiful
Moor in selecting him as her squire upon this occasion, and prepared for
the cavalcade. He had no need to seek very far for the cavaliers he
wished to join him in it; since they were, for the most part, already in
his own house, ready to follow him wherever he chose to lead them. He
conducted them at five o’clock to Don Lewis’s house, who, seeing more
than two hundred cavaliers who came for Daraxa, whose intentions he was
not unacquainted with, went in search of her, and offered himself to
bear her company; but she returned him thanks, telling him that she was
very glad she was able to spare him the mortification of seeing her
solicit for the life of a man, whose enemy he had so openly professed
himself, and, in fact, against whose life he was the principal
prosecutor.

The Marquis, stung to the quick by this refusal, would willingly have
frustrated the lady’s design, or at least have rendered it useless if it
had been in his power; but it was now too late to frame any obstacle. He
was, therefore, obliged to conceal his mortification, which was,
however, visibly depicted on his face, in spite of all his efforts to
smother it. Daraxa at length left the house, without taking any notice
of his displeasure. She found Don Alonso waiting for her on foot at the
gate, with all the principal persons of the troop, who had also
alighted to compliment her. She made an effort to express some joy,
notwithstanding the profound sorrow that she felt on the occasion, and
assured Don Alonso she should ever entertain the most lively sense of
her obligation to him. Zuniga forgot nothing that a man in love and full
of noble thoughts could say on such an occasion, and answered: that “he
could not express how sensible he was of her kindness, in having
selected himself and his friends to conduct her to the palace, where she
could not fail to immortalize herself by so heroic an action.” Don
Alonso, as well as the other gentlemen, could not sufficiently applaud
so generous an undertaking, most firmly believing that the beautiful
Moor interested herself for the prisoner, merely out of friendship for
her friend Donna Elvira.

After these compliments, Daraxa mounted her horse with her usual grace.
Don Alonso and the rest followed her example, and the cavalcade began
to defile by the Moors, who were about forty in number, all well
equipped, and admirably mounted, having Orviedo and the newly-arrived
officer at their head. After these came Daraxa herself, between Don
Alonso and Don Diego de Castro; the remainder of the company followed in
very good order, six in each rank. Though the preparations for this
cavalcade had occupied but little time, yet the rumour of its approach
had already spread through the city, and the people, who were as curious
to behold the beautiful Moor as to know what could be her business at
the palace, were collected in crowds in the streets through which she
must of necessity pass. She was dressed in a most magnificent Moorish
habit, and had neglected nothing that could add to her beauty on so
important an occasion. All the spectators were struck with her becoming
appearance; but what astonished them more than any thing, was the
graceful ease and dexterity with which she managed her horse; an art in
which Spanish women rarely excel.

The cavalcade having arrived at the square before the palace, Don Alonso
formed his Cavaliers into a squadron round about her, and the Judges
sent out two ushers of the Court, who conducted her to the door of the
first hall, where she was received by two of the Judges, who did her all
the honor that could have been conferred on a princess, and led her to
the audience. Don Alonso, and other young nobles, who had alighted from
their horses at the same time as Daraxa, followed her, and entered also
into the hall where the Judges were assembled, who appeared much
surprised and uneasy on this account. Putting, however, a good face on
the matter, they attended only to the Moorish lady, who charmed them all
by the elegant and majestic air with which she presented herself before
the tribunal of justice. She took her seat in an arm-chair with a
cushion and foot-carpet, which had been prepared for her, and after
having beheld all the Judges for some moments with fixed attention, she
raised her voice, and thus addressed them:--

“There is but one reason, my Lords, sufficiently imperative to justify
the step that I have taken, in thus presenting myself before you. I know
the rules that modesty prescribes for persons of my sex; but there are
occasions when these rules may be dispensed with. On such an occasion am
I come hither, to implore justice against yourselves. A sentence is to
be put in execution to-morrow, that you have pronounced upon a man,
whose only crime is that of having defended his life against assassins.
This is an incontrovertible fact, of which I was myself an eye-witness,
as well as Donna Elvira, and two waiting-women who were also with us in
the wood. Shall two peasants be allowed to come up behind two
Cavaliers, and beat them with clubs most unmercifully, and shall not
these Cavaliers be justified in defending themselves against so
unwarranted an assault? If the Bailiff’s son came with two of his
friends, all three armed with swords, and rushed upon two men who had
nothing but sticks to protect themselves with, what crime have these
latter committed in acting on the defensive against such dastardly
villains? Who among you, gentlemen, finding himself in the same
situation, but would do his utmost to kill his opponent, if no other
means remained of saving his own life? but why should I enlarge upon
that point? you need not be told that it is the law of nature. It is now
said that it was a mistake of the Bailiff’s son: but what of that? his
mistake cannot justify his actions, neither can it criminate the persons
whom he wished to assassinate.

“I shall not trouble you, my Lords, with any further remarks, except to
inform you what has induced me to interest myself so strongly for your
prisoner. _He is not a gentleman of Arragon, nor is he Don Jaymé Vivez_,
BUT THE BRAVE OZMIN, whose name is well known among your troops, as
having distinguished himself in many glorious actions. He it was, who,
the last day of the sports killed the two bulls, and saved the life of
Don Alonso de Zuniga. But what has impelled me more than all his noble
qualities, to make this appeal to your Justice, is, that he is my
husband, if I may be permitted to give that name to a man who with the
mutual consent of our parents has plighted his faith to me, and received
mine in return. Reflect on what I have laid before you, my Lords, before
you cause a sentence to be carried into execution against a kinsman of
King Mahomet, whom you ought not to have condemned on such slight
grounds.”

The beautiful Moor had no sooner finished her speech, than a noise
arose throughout the hall that very much startled and frighted the
Judges: every body crying out, that the prisoner was innocent, and ought
to be released. The chief Justice commanded silence, which being
obtained, he replied to the Lady in the name of himself and brothers,
“That they might possibly have been misinformed in this affair: that
they would review the whole matter, and give her their answer that very
same day.” But the whole assembly cried out again, that the prisoner
ought instantly to be set at liberty, threatening to force the
prison-doors if this were refused. The same Judge answered, “That after
a judgment was once pronounced, it was no longer in their power to
liberate the prisoner; that all they could do on their parts, was to
suspend the execution of the sentence until they received orders from
their Majesties, who alone were now able to annul it.” Daraxa then
requested permission to visit Ozmin; and it was granted her without
hesitation, on condition that no more than four persons should enter the
prison with her, and that she would engage that no violence should
ensue.

The cavalcade proceeded to the prison in the same order as it had
arrived at the palace, and the beautiful Moor chose Don Alonso, Don
Diego de Castro, Orviedo, and the Moorish officer, to go in with her.
Conceive, if possible, the agreeable surprise of Ozmin, when he saw
Daraxa enter his chamber with Don Alonso, and learnt what she had just
achieved for him. His joy could only be equalled by that of his
mistress, whose heart overflowed with rapturous emotion which she could
not otherwise express than by the tears that flowed in torrents from her
eyes. Zuniga partook of the pleasure of the lovers, and embraced his
friend as sincerely as though he had not been his rival. His friendship
mingled with his love. He could not, however, refrain from reproaching
him for his want of confidence, threatening with a smile, that he would
be avenged for his dissimulation, by continuing in love with the
beautiful Moor for the remainder of his life. This reproach drew
compliments upon him from both of them. Daraxa declared that next to
Ozmin he would ever possess her esteem; and Ozmin assured him that, with
the exception of Daraxa, there was no one whose love he should so highly
prize. Zuniga did not fail to make obliging returns to these kind
professions of friendship; after which he introduced his friend Don
Diego to Ozmin, as a Cavalier of distinguished birth and merit. This
gave rise to further compliments, till at length they began to think of
the more important consideration that brought them hither, and resolved
to send off a messenger instantly to their Majesties to obtain the
prisoner’s pardon. Orviedo was fixed on, and immediately set off for
Granada, with letters both to Ozmin’s and Daraxa’s relations.

Orviedo made such dispatch, that after three days he returned to
Seville, with his master’s pardon, and an order to the Magistrates to
treat him with all the honors due to his noble birth, and becoming the
future husband of the beautiful Moor. As soon as Daraxa was informed
that Ozmin was at liberty to leave the prison, she repaired thither with
a more numerous and more magnificent equipage than before. Every
Cavalier of any distinction in the city was among the cavalcade. Don
Rodrigo de Padilla made himself particularly remarkable for his
magnificence. He insisted on making one amongst them, and expressed to
Daraxa his sincere joy at the good success of her undertaking, in spite
of all the old Marquis’s rage and vexation, whose conduct he by no means
approved of; and when he saw Ozmin, he behaved towards him in a most
handsome manner.

Thus our hero left prison with as much honor and joy, as he was thrust
into it with shame and sorrow. The same people who had but a few days
before desired his death, now followed the cavalcade with acclamations
of delight, so extremely anxious were they to see the famous conqueror
of the Bulls. Don Lewis, whose resentment and haughtiness were by no
means abated, was the only person who did not visit Ozmin, whom he could
not regard in any other light than a man who had brought dishonor upon
his family, by the great talk and noise that his daughter’s love for Don
Jaymé had made in the city. He fully expected that he should be rallied
at court on this account. For this reason he pretended illness, as an
excuse for not being able to accompany Daraxa to Granada, and appeared
no more in Seville until after her departure.

As for Elvira, besides that she had all the ill-humour of her father to
contend with, she could not console herself under the reflection that
she had been deceived by the two persons whom she most loved, though, in
truth, she had more cause to blame her own conduct than theirs. She did
not long survive her mortification and disappointment. The ill-humours
and vexations of Don Lewis and his daughter, did not prevent the making
extraordinary rejoicings at Don Alonso’s, where Ozmin and Daraxa lodged
until the next day, when they set out for Granada, accompanied by Don
Alonso and Don Diego de Castro, who insisted on being present at their
nuptials, which were celebrated with the greatest magnificence, and
honoured by the presence of their Catholic Majesties. There were
tournaments and bull feasts, where Moors competed with the Christians in
courage and address. In addition to all this, the two lovers, to render
themselves more worthy that Heaven should shower its blessings on their
nuptials, embraced the Christian religion, and became the noble origin
of one of the most illustrious houses in Spain.

The Friar who had entertained us with this story, finished here. After
which his friend and himself commenced a conversation respecting the
wars of Granada. During all this time the muleteer, perceiving that we
were almost at the gates of Cazalla, seemed particularly anxious to say
a few words to me in private. Since our last adventure, he had not
uttered a word, but, as we were now about to part, perhaps never to meet
again, he at length broke silence by demanding of me three crowns, for
the charges of my journey, as well as for my share of what we had
expended at the inn where we had supped so well the preceding evening,
and breakfasted so delicately that very morning. This was any thing but
a joke to me, who little expected such a demand, and might have defied
him or any other person to have made me pay it, not having half that
sum in my purse; and we soon grew so warm in our arguments against each
other on this subject, that I had armed myself with two flints, which I
should certainly have levelled at his head, had not the Friars taken
compassion on me, and prevented me from getting myself well thrashed.
These gentlemen set themselves up for umpires in the case, and after
having heard both parties, condemned me to pay the muleteer a fourth
part of what he demanded. I was obliged to obey this decree, which,
favorable as it was towards me, reduced my finances so low, that I had
scarcely sufficient remaining in my purse to defray the expences of a
supper and night’s lodging at another Inn, whither I repaired after
having taken leave of the two Friars, and the unlucky muleteer, who had
no great reason, in my opinion, to thank his stars that he ever met with
me.




CHAP. X.

_Guzman becomes an Innkeeper’s Boy._


Behold me now, friendly reader, in the best inn at Cazalla, twelve
leagues from Seville, where the money I had left was sufficient to pay
for a good supper and a good bed to lie down on. Instead, however, of
enjoying a profound sleep, which such excellent fare was calculated to
procure me, the state of my affairs presented itself to my imagination
in a thousand distressing forms, and prevented me from sleeping a wink
the whole of the night. “Hitherto,” said I to myself, “I have always had
plenty to eat and drink. But this will now soon be over. When a man has
bread to eat he may support himself under any affliction. ’Tis well to
have a father; ’tis well to have a mother; but nothing is to be compared
to a good bellyful.”

Necessity, with her heretic visage, now stared me full in the face, and
occasioned the most terrible apprehensions in my mind; and I would
gladly have returned to Seville, had I not considered that money was
quite as necessary to repair my folly as to pursue my fortune. I could
compare myself to nothing but some half-starved cur, who having lost his
way, finds himself surrounded by a number of larger dogs barking and
growling at him on all sides. In addition to this, how could I, without
shame, return to my mother’s house after having left it with so much
resolution. The loss of my cloak also recurred to my remembrance, which
I imagined would be a fine subject for ridicule on my return. This last
consideration was sufficient to determine me not to return to Seville;
in addition to which, I was not less concerned that I must stop when I
was in so fair a way. A point of honour then seized me, and I resolved
to continue my journey, abandoning myself to Providence. I took the
direct road to Madrid, the ordinary residence of our Kings, hoping to
see something of the Court, which I had been told was most brilliant,
from the great number of noblemen that composed it, and above all from
the presence of a young king newly married. All this excited my
curiosity, and I encouraged the most flattering ideas, building castles
in the air without number. I fancied that a lad of my air and figure
would soon be noticed in such a country, where I should soon make
friends, and could not fail of making my fortune. Full of these
deceitful visions, I had little inclination to sleep, and lay expecting
the day with impatience. But no sooner had it arrived, and I had set out
for Madrid, than all these chimeras vanished, leaving nothing before my
eyes but a long and tedious journey.

“Courage, Signor Guzman,” said I to myself; “consider that you cannot
now retreat. Keep up your spirits, therefore, my friend, and do your
best whatever may happen. Instead of having a cloak upon your shoulders,
which would only incommode you at this time of the year, be content that
you have a good stick, which will assist you in walking.” I passed the
whole day without eating, and at night lay myself down on the grass at
the foot of a large tree, where I fell asleep from fatigue, and did not
wake until the sun had risen the next morning, when I began to feel that
I could have made a very hearty breakfast if I had had any provisions;
but not having even a morsel of the coarsest bread, I found myself
obliged to set forward again upon an empty stomach, and with an appetite
increasing every moment. Towards night, my hunger became such, that I
could scarcely walk from weakness. In vain did my stomach plead its
emptiness; my legs seemed unwilling to support my weight any farther.

Just at this moment two gentlemen, who by their looks seemed to be rich
merchants, trotted briskly past me upon mules. “Thank God!” thought I,
“here are two gentlemen who will in all probability defray my charges
to-day.” The hope of obtaining a good meal at their expense inspired me
with fresh strength, and I resolved not to lose sight of them. A meal
was now of the most serious consideration for me. With this impression I
followed them so closely that we arrived together at the inn where they
stopped. I looked more dead than alive when I came up with them; yet,
tired as I was, I shewed myself disposed to make myself useful by
holding the bridles of their mules while they alighted, and offering my
services to carry their portmanteau, with a bag containing their
provisions, into their apartments. But, whether my officiousness
rendered me suspected by them, or that they were naturally rough and
distrustful, no sooner had I laid my hands on the bag, than one of them
called out to me, in a voice which made me tremble from head to foot,
“Out of the way, boy! stand off!” I obeyed without making any answer to
this disagreeable reception, and formed but a bad presage in favour of
the gratification of my appetite; but determined not to be so easily got
rid of. I therefore walked behind them to their room, in a very humble
manner, with my hat in my hand. They had brought good provisions with
them, as is customary in Spain. I saw a roast shoulder of mutton drawn
from their bags, with part of a ham, some bread and wine. This only
increased my extreme desire to serve them. To obtain their favour,
therefore, I advanced towards the table, and took up a glass, intending
to rinse it for their use, but the other merchant, who had not yet
spoken, snatched it from me, saying, in a rougher manner than his
friend, “No, no, leave that glass alone. We have no occasion for your
services.”

“O traitors!” thought I, “enemies to God and man! hearts of flint! I
find that I have exhausted my breath and strength to little purpose in
following you hither.” I resolved, however, not to leave them, in the
hope that they might feel more charitably disposed when their bellies
were full, and throw me a bone to pick, or even a bit of bread, out of
compassion. I was again mistaken; they continued eating without deigning
to cast a look towards me. I devoured their provisions with my eyes all
this time; but this would not satisfy my craving appetite. To complete
my mortification, I saw these monsters put up the remains of their
dinner in their wallet, even to the smallest bit of bread, with which
they left the inn. What barbarity! what a sight for a lad starving with
hunger! I was ready to run distracted with grief and inanition, when a
friar of the order of St. Francis entered the room in which I stood.

I conceived but little hope of relief from this quarter. What assistance
could I expect from a poor monk, who travelled on foot, from a begging
friar, who seemed himself to stand in need of assistance? He perspired
freely, and appeared much fatigued. He brought a wallet with him, which
he placed on the table, and upon which I fixed the most attentive and
eager looks. I could have stolen it even from the altar; it made my
mouth water before I knew its contents. When his reverence took out his
provisions, which consisted of a large loaf of white bread, and a piece
of salt beef, which I should have longed for even at my mother’s table,
I fixed my eyes upon them, and stood in an ecstacy with my mouth wide
open. How did I wish that I had been his little brother! I fancied that
I felt in my own throat every morsel that he swallowed.

He happened to look at me by chance in the course of his meal, and
perceiving what I wanted, for my looks spoke, “Good God!” cried he,
animated by a holy zeal, “approach, my child, I will not allow thee to
languish from want; though I had but this bit of bread, it should be
thine. Here, my son,” added he, giving me half his bread and meat, “take
a little nourishment. I were unworthy to exist did I not share with
thee.”

O Providence! who makest many of thy creatures to subsist even in stone,
thy divine goodness never forsakes us! I implored blessings on the head
of the reverend father, for this act of charity towards me; and began to
shew him that he was not deceived in my half-starved appearance; and
being now pretty well replenished, I returned thanks to Heaven for this
fortunate rencounter. How pleased should I have been had I been doomed
to travel any distance with this friar! My fate would have been
enviable; but, as chance would have it, he was going to Seville, so that
we parted immediately after dinner. Before we separated, he put his hand
into his wallet, and gave me half of another small loaf, saying, that I
should have my full share of all he had. I put up this last half-loaf in
my pocket, and after having eaten the first with the beef, and drunk
some good fresh water, for the good friar had nothing better to offer
me, I set out again in good spirits towards Madrid.

I travelled about three leagues further during the day, and in the
evening reached Campanis, a large village in New Castile, where I
entered an inn, and supped upon the half-loaf I brought with me, having
nothing better to eat. This inn was where the muleteers of Tuxillo
lodged, for whom all the beds were engaged, and who came in towards
night. The landlord allotted me a lodge in the hay-loft, whither I
mounted very contentedly, not being in a situation to make any
difficulties. I stretched myself on the straw, and slept soundly until
day-break, when I rose with a light stomach, which, as you will
recollect, was by no means overloaded the preceding night, and had
already got out of the inn, when the rascally landlord was uncivil
enough to stop me, demanding payment for my night’s lodging, for which
he charged four marvedis. As I had not even one in the world, I
struggled to escape from his grasp; but he held me fast, and perceiving
that my coat was made of good cloth, he was on the point of taking it
off, by way of settling the dispute, had not a muleteer, who was
standing by, taken pity on me. “Leave the lad alone,” said he to the
host, “I will pay for him. I see how the matter stands; this young man
has run away either from his father’s or his master’s house.” At these
words the landlord looked at me, and asked me if I was disposed to serve
him, having occasion for the assistance of a boy like me in his inn.

At any other time such a proposal would have appeared ridiculous to me,
and I should even have been offended at it; but misery relieves one from
such scruples, and reconciles the greatest hardships. After having
considered for a few moments, the prospect of starvation made me accept
his offer. “Enter my house, then,” said he; “there are but two things I
shall require of you: to give out the oats and straw to the passengers,
and to be sure to render me a good and faithful account.” I promised to
acquit myself in this noble post to the utmost of my abilities; after
which I was engaged beyond the power of retracting.

However hard service was to me, who had hitherto been accustomed to be
waited upon myself, I was at first tolerably well contented with my
situation. Very few gentlemen passed that way in the course of the day,
so that, generally, I had nothing to do but to eat and drink until
night, when the muleteers arrived. I soon learnt all the manœuvres of
inns: how to swell the corn to three times its quantity with boiling
water, and how to measure it out afterwards to the best advantage. There
was no occasion to point out to me more than once the peculiar
construction of the mangers, for, after one attempt, I well knew how to
watch my opportunity to deprive the passengers of at least a third part
of the corn they paid for; and even the muleteers did not always escape;
but when by chance any young cavaliers, distinguished by their insignia
and the nice cut of their whiskers, happened to stop at our house
without servants, we were particularly assiduous in our attentions. No
sooner did we perceive them than we ran out to assist them to alight.
These young gentlemen, for the most part, affecting to be persons of
great importance, would not condescend to enter the stable, but were
content to recommend their horses or mules to our care; which
recommendation had so powerful an effect that we never failed to lead
the poor beasts where there was neither hay nor a single grain of corn.
We tied them to the rack, and left them to their meditations.
Occasionally, however, out of pity, we gave them a handful of corn, just
by way of a bon-bouche, before their departure, though of this scanty
pittance the poultry in the yard caught up half, and sometimes even the
jackass got his share of it.

In this manner were all those cavaliers served who relied upon our
honesty; and if we made them pay well for what their beasts had never
eaten, judge in what manner we charged them for their own expences. I
was overjoyed when it fell to my lot to reckon with them: “your bill
amounts to so many reals,” said I, “and so many maravedis,” adding in a
graceful manner: _Y haga les buen provecho_,--“Much good may it do
you:”--a compliment which always procured me something for myself. You
will very easily believe that we always charged this sort of customers
twice as much as they owed, in spite of all the regulations of the
Police, to which my master paid little attention, though they were fixed
up all over his house. He was satisfied with having them in his
possession, and so long as he was able to pay the officers their dues,
he cared but little about observing their ordinances.

The more experienced travellers always paid without hesitation whatever
was demanded, knowing that it was useless to contend; but others who
thought themselves more cunning, would frequently have the landlord
called, that they might reckon with him. On these occasions, our master,
for fear of doing himself wrong, always increased the price of every
article; and when he had once taxed the bill at a certain amount, his
sentence was without appeal, and they were obliged to draw their
purse-strings. Woe to that traveller who presumes to complain of his
treatment, and to threaten an innkeeper in Spain for having cheated him.
As they are almost all of them members of the Holy Brotherhood, he will
be sure to cause him to be arrested at the first village through which
he passes, accusing him either of a design to burn his house to the
ground, of having assaulted him, or of having violated his wife or his
daughter; so that the poor traveller may esteem himself more than
ordinarily happy if he got off by paying double what was before
demanded of him, after having begged pardon of his landlord into the
bargain.

There were several pretty servant-maids in our inn, but it was dangerous
to have any thing to say to them. It was well for those who had their
wits about them when they left the house; for whatever happened by
chance to be forgotten and left behind, was sure never to be heard of
again. What roguery! what infamous trick! what wickedness is constantly
going on at these inns! God is not feared, and Justice is compounded
with. One would think that when a man becomes an innkeeper he is at
liberty to do what he pleases, and has an absolute power over the
property as well as the persons of such as are obliged to stop at his
house.




CHAP. XI.

_Guzman becomes disgusted with his situation, leaves the Inn, and
repairs to Madrid, where he associates with some beggars._


Besides that I was of too flighty a disposition to be long contented in
the same way of life, I could not consider the one that I now led by any
means suitable to a spirited lad who had left his mother’s house, for
the sole purpose of seeing the world. In addition to this, the servant
of an innkeeper ranked lower, in my opinion, than that of a blind
beggar. I saw every day boys of about my own age and size pass our door,
who, after having asked alms, went gaily along the road again. This
sight roused my feelings: “what,” said I to myself, “does the dread of
hunger hold me here, while these young fellows, who have no more
resolution than I ought to be master of, expose themselves courageously
to hunger and thirst? I am in all probability as well deserving as they,
and ought not, therefore, to be less courageous.” These reflections
inspired me with resolution, and, defying fortune, I again set out for
Madrid, after having demanded my dismissal of my master, who gave me
three reals for my services during the time I had been with him.

With this money and the little I had saved from the liberality of our
customers, I was able to advance as far as the celebrated bridge of
Arcolis upon Zagus, whence I pursued my route as the others had done, by
holding out my hand in every village through which I passed, and to
every gentleman I met; but the harvest had been so extremely bad that
year, that people in general were but little disposed to be charitable.
I was therefore soon obliged to sell my clothes; so that I cut a most
elegant figure when I reached that celebrated capital of Spain. I was
reduced to a tattered pair of breeches, with a shirt black and torn, a
pair of stockings with a thousand holes in them, and shoes which had no
other soles than those of my feet. I looked more like a fellow just
escaped from the galleys, than a gentleman’s son of good family; and
could not possibly hope to be employed in any gentleman’s service, which
was now the height of my ambition. My miserable appearance was not
calculated to prepossess any one in my favour, and he must have been a
bold man indeed who could have made up his mind to admit me into his
house. No one could look at me attentively without saying in his own
mind, there is a young chap who only wants the opportunity to perform
some desperate trick. At length, finding that my appearance was such,
that no one would receive me either as page, footman, or even as a
turnspit, I turned my eyes towards a company of beggars whom I perceived
at a church door. I considered them with attention, and they seemed so
healthy and void of care, that I thought I could not do better than
enrol myself in their company. I joined them accordingly, and was
received by them as a member whose mien and equipage were not unworthy
of their fraternity.

Before I reached Madrid I had taken good care to leave all my modesty on
the road, as a load too heavy for a foot passenger to carry about with
him. If I had not ere this got rid of this cruel enemy to hunger, I
should soon have lost every spark of it in the company of these good
folks, who were severally and collectively the most complete birds of
prey. I followed them every where, acting as a sort of assistant to
them, until I should become sufficiently experienced to contribute my
share towards making the pot boil, in which there never failed to be
plenty. Twice a day we had a fine dish of soup, of which I was sure to
partake, provided I attended punctually to the hours of dinner and
supper, otherwise being only an underling, I should have found nothing
but the empty turine for my share.

After supper we generally sat down to play; I soon learned the games of
Quince, one and thirty, quinola and primera, with a thousand tricks on
the cards. I had so happy a knack, and my disposition was so well suited
to this science, that I made visible progress under these excellent
masters. Little as I was, I felt desirous to imitate some of my
companions, who, lest they should be punished as vagrants, posted
themselves with baskets in the different markets, offering the citizens
to carry home for them the provisions they might purchase. This
employment appeared rather laborious to me at first, but I soon got so
well accustomed to it, that I thought no man’s lot preferable to my own.
“How charming,” thought I, “to live thus in plenty, without being
obliged to use either needle or thread, the hammer or the thimble;
nothing but a basket and a little industry being necessary for
subsistence! The life of a beggar is a delicacy without bone, an
uninterrupted stream of pleasure, an employment exempt from trouble and
vexation. How void of sense must my ancestors have been to have taken so
much pains to live in wretchedness! In how many perplexities have they
been involved for the sake of supporting their commerce and reputation!
O absurd honour of this world, thou art but a millstone to sink such
fools as consent to be burdened with thee!”

One day as I was carrying home a quarter of mutton in my basket for an
honest shoemaker who walked before me, I picked up a paper which I
perceived lying in the street, containing some verses of an old ballad,
which I began to read and sing to myself. The shoe-maker, surprised to
hear me, said with a smile: “what, you ill-looking little dog, can you
read?” “And write too,” answered I. “Is it possible?” cried he, much
astonished. “If you will teach me merely to sign my name, I will pay you
well for your trouble.” I asked of what possible use the knowing how to
sign his name only could be to him, and he told me that having obtained
a good situation through the influence of a certain person, whom he
named, whose family he had supplied with shoes gratis, he should be glad
to be able to sign his name when necessary, that he might not be obliged
to confess that he could not write.

As soon as we entered his house he caused pen, ink, and paper to be
brought, and I commenced my occupation of writing-master, showing my
scholar how to hold his pen, and guiding his hand. I then made him form
the letters that composed his name so many times over, that he fancied
he had already acquired the elements of the art of writing. After having
scribbled over and blotted five or six sheets of paper, he was so well
satisfied, that he made me try on a pair of new shoes, which fitted as
if they had been made for me, and which he presented me with: I then
took leave of him, assuring him, that whenever I wanted a new pair of
shoes, I would call and give some further lessons to make him quite
perfect in his writing.




CHAP. XII.

_Guzman is engaged by a Cook._


I was well content in this new way of life, in which I enjoyed that
_liberty_ so eagerly desired by all the world, so boasted of by
philosophers, and so often sung of by poets: I possessed that precious
treasure which is preferable to gold or silver; but unfortunately I did
not long retain it, for a cursed cook soon deprived me of it. This cook
was one of my most constant employers: “My friend,” said he one day, “I
am well pleased with you, and am willing to put you in the way of making
your fortune; quit your idle companions, and come and fill the place of
scullion at my master’s which is now vacant; I will myself teach you
the duties of the kitchen out of friendship, and qualify you to become
cook to the King himself. Happen what may, the very least advantage you
can derive from a knowledge of this fine art, is to enable you to return
to your own country a rich man.” In short, he so completely cajoled me,
that I willingly accepted his proposal.

He then conducted me to the hotel of the nobleman whom he served, where
I took my post and my scullion’s cap, that is a nightcap, with a white
apron. The first thing that was given me was some parsley to shred;
which is always considered like the alphabet to those who aspire to the
higher degrees in the kitchen. The cook my master was a married man: he
had a house in the neighbourhood where his wife lived, and where we both
went home to sleep every night; but I passed the principal part of the
day at the Hotel, where I was always ready to oblige every body. My
activity and good-nature soon gained me the esteem of my fellow servants
of both sexes. I performed their commissions with punctuality, secresy
and fidelity, and was rewarded by many small gratifications in return.
In the kitchen I performed my duty to admiration, and my master was so
well satisfied with me, that he often said I was born to tread in his
footsteps.

I grant that all this cost me no small trouble, but then I was amply
recompensed by the many advantages that my exertions procured me. Next
to the profession of begging, which is undoubtedly the most charming
condition of civilized society, I could not possibly fare better than I
did in this kitchen; having been bred to good cheer, I felt myself
completely in my element. No plate came in or went out of the kitchen
but I had a lick at it, no sauce but what I tasted, and I can assure you
my master made most exquisite ragouts. The cooks of St. Giles’s, of St.
Dominick, of the Gate of the Sun, the great Market-place and Toledo
Street, must excuse me if I rank him far above them in this art,
notwithstanding the high reputation they have established.

I might have been perfectly happy had I resisted the opportunity of
gaming; but I could not long withstand the temptation of joining the
lackeys and pages, who were at cards almost the whole of the day. At
first I spent only now and then a quarter of an hour with them, or half
an hour at the utmost; but when I found that my natural inclination for
this cursed habit was not sufficiently satisfied by day, I was induced
to steal from my master’s house in the night-time, as soon as I believed
him to be asleep, for the purpose of joining my companions at the Hotel,
with whom I generally remained until sun-rise the next morning. If my
master had been informed of my conduct, he would undoubtedly have
horse-whipped me handsomely; but no one apprized him of it, for fear of
getting me into trouble. Meantime I lost all the money that I had earned
in the execution of commissions, without losing my taste for gaming; on
the contrary, my desire for play increased daily, and I was induced to
steal to supply me with means; this I had never yet been guilty of,
although I well knew, that from my master downwards, all the servants in
the Hotel were in the habit of appropriating to their own use every
thing they could lay their hands on. Every one took good care of
himself, and what is more surprising, though they were all well aware of
each other’s practices, no one ever impeached the rest, but kept the
secret which equally affected them all.

Though I had not been a gamester from inclination, and though I had not
been from nature eagerly disposed to possess myself of the property of
another, these examples alone would have been more than sufficient to
corrupt me I soon began, therefore, to follow the fashion; I cast my
eyes with eagerness all over the house, and whatever I could pilfer
without being observed, was soon converted into money; but,
unfortunately for me, I had no sooner acquired it, than I lost it again
at play.

In addition to the opportunities which presented themselves to me to
exercise my slight of hand at the Hotel, which might be compared to a
sea open to all sorts of fishermen, I had my master’s private house,
which, though indeed but a small river, in which it was not likely to
take fish of any considerable size, yet afforded me one day tolerable
good sport. My master regaled some of his friends, all good
bottle-companions and fond of good cheer like himself, with a collation
one afternoon, treating them with andouilles and hams, which caused them
to drink three times as much as usual. During this entertainment I was
at the Hotel, and when I had finished my work, returned home to see if I
was wanted. The visitors were already gone, and I found the parlour
intolerably hot and full of dust, the cloth still on the table, and the
floor strewed with empty bottles, most of them broken. My master, whom I
did not see, but whom I heard plain enough, was snoring on his bed so
loud as to make the whole house ring with the noise; and my mistress,
who was about as sober as her husband, lay by him sleeping as sound as a
top.

I contemplated for some moments the remains of this debauch, when I
happened to cast my eyes on a silver goblet which stood on the table,
and resolved to steal it. I was certain that nobody had seen me come in,
and I could leave the house again equally unobserved. This reflection
was sufficient to determine me: “with your leave, Mr. Goblet,” whispered
I, putting it into my pocket, “you shall pay me for these broken
bottles;” then closing the door softly after me, I placed my booty in a
safe place, and returned to the Hotel as though nothing had happened.
Towards evening my master came into the kitchen, somewhat recovered of
his debauch, but in so peevish a humor, that he complained of the merest
trifles, and immediately began to quarrel with me for having a faggot
too much on the fire. I made no answer, but accompanied him home after
supper, where he immediately went to bed. As to his wife, she had so
comfortable a nap, that she was now as composed as usual, except that
she appeared dull and vexed about something. I enquired the cause with
as much effrontery as if I had been entirely ignorant of it. She
informed me that she could not find the goblet, telling me, at the same
time, that it was not the value of the thing that she regretted, but the
passion that her husband would be in when he missed it, from whom she
should never hear the last of it.

I endeavoured to console her,--not to the utmost of my power, for nobody
was so well able as myself had I been disposed,--but by representing to
her that this goblet was not of so singular a manufacture, but that a
fellow to it might be found in Madrid; that she had nothing therefore to
do, but to purchase another of the same make and fashion, telling her
husband that it was the same, which she had had fresh-washed, or that it
was a new one she had bought by giving the other and a few reals in
exchange. She approved of my advice, and requested me to endeavour to
procure one for her; and so next day I carried the stolen goblet itself
to a goldsmith’s a good way off from our house, desiring him to have it
washed, which he promised to get done in such a manner for me, that it
should appear as good as new.

I communicated this good news to my mistress. “Madam,” said I, “I have
been fortunate enough to find a goblet at a Jeweller’s shop exactly
resembling the one you have lost, but the quality and fashion of it are
so excellent, that the very lowest price at which it can be procured is
fifty six reals.” Anxious to avert the storm that threatened her, she
counted me out that sum without hesitation, and gave me half a real for
my trouble. I accordingly carried the aforesaid goblet to her in the
evening, which she thought so exactly like the other, that she said she
was convinced her husband would never know to the contrary.

The fruits of this worthy exploit enabled me to game afresh. It was,
indeed, a considerable sum for a scullion to apply to such a purpose;
but, alas! all these reals soon fell into the gulph which had already
swallowed up the produce of my former knaveries. Those with whom I
played were more experienced in the art than I was, although I had
learnt among the beggars how to shift the cards, to make false cuts,
and many other villainous tricks of the like nature.

About this time my master was desired to prepare an elegant dinner for a
foreign prince who had newly arrived at Madrid. Early in the morning of
the day preceding that on which this entertainment was to be given, the
cook took me with him into the kitchen, where the purveyor had just sent
provisions of every description necessary for the fete. We immediately
began, before the others joined us, to set apart whatever we considered
our dues of office, and soon filled a large sack, with loins of veal,
hams, tongues, and all kinds of fowls, which we concealed until night,
when I was desired to convey it home as privately as possible. This I
could not do without great fatigue, so heavily was I laden. I afterwards
returned to the kitchen, where I found employment until midnight in
preparing fowls for dressing on the next day, and after I had finished
my work, my master charged me with the care of a second sack containing
hares, pheasants, and partridges, saying: “here, Guzman, carry this home
safely, and go to rest my little friend; you will tell my wife that I
know not how long it may be before I come home.” The liar! he knew well
enough he should be obliged to remain all night at the Hotel, where his
presence was absolutely necessary to superintend the other cooks, who
were actively engaged under his directions. But he was rather inclined
to be jealous, although his wife was no beauty; and he only sent her
this message to deceive her, that she might regulate her conduct
accordingly, evidently fearing that she might think fit to call in a
neighbour to fill his place during his absence; this being a kind office
which people are as ready to perform towards cooks, as towards other
absent husbands.

Having reached home, the first thing I did was to hang the contents of
my sack in rows along the wall, which formed a very pleasant looking
tapestry; after which I began to think of going to bed, for I stood much
in need of rest after so hard a day’s work. My mistress, who slept in
the lower parlour, was already in bed. I ascended to my apartment, which
was a garret into which the sun darted its rays from morning till night,
making it as hot by night as by day. I threw off my shirt to be more
cool, and stretched myself as naked as I was born on the sorry bed in
which I usually lay; but my slumbers, sound as they were, were disturbed
about an hour afterwards by a most frightful noise, occasioned by cats,
who were fighting desperately, and the gallery appeared to me to be the
field of battle. This made me uneasy: “there will be the devil to pay,”
said I to myself, “if these malicious animals should fall upon our
provender! it were best for me to go and see what is the matter, that
creates so terrible a din.” Hereupon I jumped out of bed; and not
staying to put on my shirt that I might not lose so much time, I
hastened to descend into the gallery; but scarcely had I set foot on my
ladder, for I had no other staircase, than I perceived a light before
me, which stopped me short. I looked round to discover whence it
proceeded, and observed a figure all naked like myself, and so black,
that I took it to be no other than the devil himself. This phantom,
which made me tremble like an aspen-leaf, was my mistress, who, having
been also waked by the cats, had come to the assistance of our pheasants
and partridges, with a lamp in her hand, and clothed like myself _in
puris naturalibus_, having neglected to put her shift on again on so
pressing an occasion. As we thought each other sound asleep, this
precaution had been considered superfluous by us both. We perceived each
other at the same moment, and if I took her for a devil, she took me
for a spright. I shrieked out most horribly, and she echoed me with
equal strength of lungs, and ran into her chamber almost frightened to
death, whilst I endeavoured to regain my garret; but as my ill-luck
would have it, I slipped from the ladder, and fell with such violence
into the gallery that I was bruised from head to foot.

I got up again with considerable difficulty, and groped my way along in
the dark until I came to a place where I knew there was a tinder-box as
well as some matches and ends of candles. I obtained a light, with which
I returned to the gallery, to see whether the combatants were still
there; but our cries had frightened them away. Finding that the enemy
was fled, I examined the articles with which I had lined the walls, one
after another, and found that the bloody battle, the noise of which had
disturbed my mistress and myself, had been occasioned by the contention
for a larded hare, for a share of which the cats had disputed with so
much rage that there was nothing remaining of it but the bones.

I put all our provisions as much out of their reach as I could, and went
to bed again: but to sleep was impossible, for in addition to the pain
caused by my bruises, I could not get my mistress’s figure out of my
mind, whose swarthy skin I fancied still before my eyes. The sight of a
woman like this naked, is frightful indeed!

Day having at length come to dispel the visions of so disagreeable a
night, I rose and dressed myself to attend my master, who had given me
strict orders to be with him very early in the morning. As soon as I saw
him, he inquired after his wife and family, and I told him that my
mistress was well, and that I had left every thing in the house in good
order; not thinking it prudent to inform him of the adventure of the
cats, for fear he should think fit to impute to me the sad fate that the
hare had met with, and punish me for my negligence accordingly.

The bustle and confusion in which our kitchen now was, in preparing to
entertain the prince who was expected, would have formed a fine subject
for a painter. Every one was in action, not only those employed in the
kitchen, but also those who were constantly passing to and fro. We
needed only to ask to have any thing, which every one took care to do
pretty freely. The provisions seemed to vanish as quickly as they
appeared; one said, “bring me sugar for the tarts,” and another cried,
“bring me more tarts to be sugared.” Thus it was with all the rest;
nothing was necessary but to vary the manner of asking a little, to
obtain any thing twice or thrice over. We called these grand
entertainments jubilees, as though we thought to obtain indulgences by
robbing the master whose bread we were eating. It is certain that the
river overflowed on these occasions on all sides, and the fish swam in
deep water. For my own part, being but a small sparrow-hawk, I waited
patiently until the kites and other larger birds of prey had their
talons full; in the mean time, however, my hands itched so immoderately,
that I could not refrain from dipping into a basket of eggs, and slipped
half a dozen of them into my pocket.

Ill luck still pursued me; my master saw me; and wishing to establish
the reputation of an honest man and zealous servant at my expence, in
the presence of so many of the house servants, he came up to me with a
savage countenance, and gave me such a kick that he lay me sprawling on
the ground, and as I happened to fall on that side where I had the
pocketful of eggs, they all broke, and made an omelet which ran down my
thighs, to the great amusement of the company present, with the
exception of my master, who still looked very serious, and adding
menaces and reproaches to insult, told me, that “he would teach me to
steal in so great a lord’s house.” I was so enraged at the behaviour of
this rascally cook towards me, that it was with great difficulty I
refrained from answering, that nobody, indeed, could teach me better
than himself; and that those eggs for which he had chastised me were
laid by the fowls he had ordered me to carry home to his house the night
before; but I held my tongue, and thereby escaped any further kicking,
with which so laconic an answer would certainly have been rewarded. Take
lesson from my behaviour on this occasion, reader, if you happen to be
so fortunate as to recollect it, when you feel desirous to show your wit
by some satirical speech which may be of ill consequence to you in your
future welfare.

Notwithstanding this unlucky accident, I managed afterwards to pocket,
unobserved, two partridges, four quails, and half of a roast pheasant,
with some sweetbreads of veal, which I secured less from interest than
to try my dexterity; not being willing to have it said of me, that I had
been at court without seeing the King, or at a wedding without kissing
the bride. The banquet being over, as my master and I were returning
home together in the evening, he said to me; “Guzman, my friend, think
no more of what passed between us in the kitchen this morning; forget
the kick I was obliged to give you; it behoved me more than you can
imagine to treat you in this manner: it was a piece of policy, for which
I was sorry in the main. But think of it no longer, my lad, and to make
you amends for this little accident I will make you a present of a new
pair of shoes to morrow.” This was an article I was so much in need of,
that I was delighted with the promise, and my resentment against him
instantly subsided. He did not, however, keep his word, being prevented
by what happened the next day.

My mistress gave me a very sour look when we got home; whence I
conceived that she had taken an aversion to me on account of the last
night’s adventure, and I was not deceived in my opinion, for she seemed,
evidently, ashamed to look me in the face. But I am convinced that she
was less mortified at my having seen her naked, than afraid of the fine
report I might make of the adventure. I went to bed, however, without
feeling much anxiety as to what she thought, and resolved to sell the
game and veal sweetbreads I had stolen the next day. I rose so early in
the morning, that I left my master in bed, and ran to the market, quite
sure that I should have abundance of time to dispose of my merchandize,
and still to get to the hotel before him. I soon found a purchaser in an
old cook, whom I never fail to curse whenever I happen to think of him,
who professed himself ready to buy whatever I had. I was so pressed for
time that the bargain was soon struck; and I agreed to let him have my
provisions for six reals, and was only waiting for my money to start off
as swift as a roebuck; but this old dotard was as punctilious and slow
as I was hasty and impatient. He must first put a register which he held
in his hand under his arm, then take off his ragged gloves, and hang
them to his girdle; after which he pulled out his spectacles and spent
about half an hour in cleaning them to examine the money he was going to
pay me.

In vain did I entreat him to make more haste, telling him I had an
affair of consequence which called me elsewhere; he was deaf to my
prayer. How long a time did he consume in untying his purse, and how
many pieces of money did he amuse himself with looking at, one after
another, before he began counting the money into my hands, by quarters
and half quarters of reals, and even maravedis: all this almost drove me
mad. “What, old fumbler,” muttered I between my teeth: “can such a
trifling old cur wish to enrage me, or to amuse me here, until my
master, who is already suspicious of me, and who, perhaps, is at this
moment looking every where for me, come up and surprise me?” This, it
appears, I had more reason to apprehend than I imagined; the cook had
heard me leave the house, and was much surprised at such extraordinary
diligence; and suspecting that I had some new scheme in my head, he got
up and dressed himself hastily that he might be at my heels; so that he
stood immediately behind me at the very moment the old man had at last
got over the ceremony of paying me. “Ho! ho! my boy,” cried my master,
seizing me by the hand and taking the money, “what fine bargain is this
you are making?” At these words I stood more confounded than a smuggler
who is caught in the fact. I made no reply, and was even patient enough
to submit to another good kick, accompanied by a thousand reproaches. He
did not leave me until he had forbidden me ever to enter his house
again, and threatened to thrash me soundly if I was ever insolent enough
to pass the door of the hotel. My friend the merchant, unluckily for
him, remained on the spot until the close of this scene, which was, in
consequence, little better for him than for me; for attributing my
present misfortune to this old sorcerer, I fell on him in my passion,
and snatched my partridges and pheasants, telling him I was determined
to have my own goods, and that he might get his money if he could from
the knave who had run off with it. Thus saying, I disappeared like a
flash of lightning, to sell my game in some other market, leaving this
phlegmatic old gentleman to his own thoughts upon the adventure, which
he most probably considered a plan concerted between the cook and me to
cheat him out of his money.

                            END OF VOL. I.


                London: Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
                        25, Parliament-street.










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