Under the archway of the great dwelling before which the carriage
stopped, Pacorrito's illusion vanished. A servant informed him that
if he soiled the flagstones with his muddy feet, he would have his
back-bone broken. Migajas retired before this overwhelming argument,
but from that instant his heart was filled with a scorching thirst
for vengeance. His fiery nature impelled him forward into the night
of the unforeseen, into the arms of his fortune. His soul was well
fitted to noisy and dramatic adventures, so what should he do but
make a compact with those who removed the garbage from the house
where his beloved lived enslaved; and by this means--which may not
have been altogether poetical, but which revealed the shrewdness of
a heart as big as the top of a pine-tree--he found his way into the
palace. How his heart throbbed as he went up the stairs and into the
kitchen! The thought of being near her confused him so that more than
once his basket fell from his hand, spilling its contents down the
steps. But nowhere could he see his lady-love. He often heard the
screams of children at play, but nothing more.
The servants, because he was so little and so ugly, played many a
trick upon him. One alone, who seemed more compassionate than the
rest, gave him sweetmeats. One cold morning the cook, through pity
or through sheer wickedness perhaps, gave him a draught of wine that
was as biting and fiery as the very devil. The ragamuffin felt a warm
and delightful current run through his whole body while hot vapors
rose to his head. His legs trembled; his limp arms fell beside him in
voluptuous abandon. A stream of playful laughter rose from his heart
and gurgled from his lips; and Pacorrito held on to the wall with
both hands to keep from falling. A vigorous kick somewhat modified
his mirth, and he left the kitchen. His brain was topsy-turvy. He had
no idea where his steps were leading him. He ran along staggering and
laughing, first over cold tiles, then over smooth boarded floors,
then over soft, warm carpets. Suddenly he caught sight of an object
on the floor. He stood petrified for a second; then he uttered a roar
of pain and fell upon his knees. Heavens! There, stretched before him
like a corpse, with a crack through her alabaster brow, a broken arm,
and dishevelled locks, was the lady of his thoughts.
For a moment our hero was speechless. His voice was smothered in
his throat. He pressed the cold body to his heart and covered it
with burning kisses. The lady's eyes were open, and she gazed with
melancholy tenderness at her faithful lover, for she lived, in spite
of her wounds. Pacorrito knew it by the singular light of her calm
blue eyes, that emitted little flames of love and gratitude.
"Señora, let me know who reduced you to this sad condition!" he
exclaimed in pathetic and anguished tones. His pain was soon followed
by a burst of rage, and he thought of the great revenge he would take
upon the perpetrators of the iniquity. Just then he heard footsteps
approaching, so he tucked the lady under his arm and started on a
run. He went down the stairs, crossed the court, and broke into the
street. He could scarcely be said to be running; he was flying, like
a bird that has stolen grain, heard a report, and feeling itself
unhurt, determines to put the greatest possible distance between
itself and the gun. He ran past one, two, three, ten streets, till he
thought he was far enough away to be in safety, and then stopped to
rest, laying the object of his insensate tenderness upon his knees.