One beautiful evening, in the year 1815, the parish priest of San
Pietro, a village a few miles distant from Sevilla, returned much
fatigued to his little cottage, where he found his aged housekeeper,
the Señora Margarita, watching for him. Notwithstanding that one is
well accustomed to the sight of poverty in Spain, it was impossible to
help being struck by the utter destitution which appeared in the house
of the good priest; the more so, as every imaginable contrivance had
been resorted to, to hide the nakedness of the walls, and the
shabbiness of the furniture. Margarita had prepared for her master's
supper a rather small dish of _olla-podriga_, which consisted, to say
the truth, of the remains of the dinner, seasoned and disguised with
great skill, and with the addition of some sauce, and a _name_. As she
placed the savoury dish upon the table, the priest said: 'We should
thank God for this good supper, Margarita; this olla-podriga makes
one's mouth water. My friend, you ought to be grateful for finding so
good a supper at the house of your host!' At the word host, Margarita
raised her eyes, and saw a stranger, who had followed her master. Her
countenance changed, and she looked annoyed. She glanced indignantly
first at the unknown, and then at the priest, who, looking down, said
in a low voice, and with the timidity of a child: 'What is enough for
two, is always enough for three; and surely you would not wish that I
should allow a Christian to die of hunger? He has not tasted food for
two days.'
'A Christian! He is more like a brigand!' and Margarita left the room
murmuring loudly enough to be heard.
Meanwhile, the unwelcome guest had remained standing at the door. He
was a man of great height, half-dressed in rags, and covered with mud;
while his black hair, piercing eyes, and carbine, gave him an
appearance which, though hardly prepossessing, was certainly
interesting. 'Must I go?' said he.
The priest replied with an emphatic gesture: 'Those whom I bring under
my roof are never driven forth, and are never unwelcome. Put down your
carbine. Let us say grace, and go to table.'
'I never leave my carbine, for, as the Castilian proverb says, "Two
friends are one." My carbine is my best friend; and I always keep it
beside me. Although you allow me to come into your house, and do not
oblige me to leave it until I wish to do so, there are others who
would think nothing of hauling me out, and, perhaps, with my feet
foremost. Come--to your good health, mine host, and let us to supper.'
The priest possessed an extremely good appetite, but the voracity of
the stranger soon obliged him to give up, for, not contented with
eating, or rather devouring, nearly the whole of the olla-podriga, the
guest finished a large loaf of bread, without leaving a crumb. While
he ate, he kept continually looking round with an expression of
inquietude: he started at the slightest sound; and once, when a
violent gust of wind made the door bang, he sprang to his feet, and
seized his carbine, with an air which shewed that, if necessary, he
would sell his life dearly. Discovering the cause of the alarm, he
reseated himself at table, and finished his repast.
'Now,' said he, 'I have one thing more to ask. I have been wounded,
and for eight days my wound has not been dressed. Give me a few old
rags, and you shall be no longer burdened with my presence.'
'I am in no haste for you to go,' replied the priest, whose guest,
notwithstanding his constant watchfulness, had conversed very
entertainingly. 'I know something of surgery, and will dress your
wound.'
So saying, he took from a cupboard a case containing everything
necessary, and proceeded to do as he had said. The stranger had bled
profusely, a ball having passed through his thigh; and to have
travelled in this condition, and while suffering, too, from want of
food, shewed a strength which seemed hardly human.
'You cannot possibly continue your journey to-day,' said the host.
'You must pass the night here. A little rest will get up your
strength, diminish the inflammation of your wound, and'----
'I must go to-day, and immediately,' interrupted the stranger. 'There
are some who wait for me,' he added with a sigh--'and there are some,
too, who follow me.' And the momentary look of softness passed from
his features between the clauses of the sentence, and gave place to an
expression almost of ferocity. 'Now, is it finished? That is well.
See, I can walk as firmly as though I had never been wounded. Give me
some bread; pay yourself for your hospitality with this piece of gold,
and adieu.'
The priest put back the gold with displeasure. 'I am not an
innkeeper,' said he; 'and I do not sell my hospitality.'
'As you will, but pardon me; and now, farewell, my kind host.'
So saying, he took the bread, which Margarita, at her master's
command, very unwillingly gave him, and soon his tall figure
disappeared among the thick foliage of a wood which surrounded the
house, or rather the cabin. An hour had scarcely passed, when
musket-shots were heard close by, and the unknown reappeared, deadly
pale, and bleeding from a deep wound near the heart.
'Take these,' said he, giving some pieces of gold to his late host;
'they are for my children--near the stream--in the valley.'
He fell, and the next moment several police-officers rushed into the
house. They hastily secured the unfortunate man, who attempted no
resistance. The priest entreated to be allowed to dress his wound,
which they permitted; but when this was done, they insisted on
carrying him away immediately. They would not even procure a carriage;
and when they were told of the danger of removing a man so severely
wounded, they merely said: 'What does it matter? If he recovers, it
will only be to receive sentence of death. He is the famous brigand,
José!'
José thanked the intercessor with a look. He then asked for a little
water, and when the priest brought it to him, he said in a faint
voice: 'Remember!' The reply was merely a sign of intelligence. When
they were gone, notwithstanding all Margarita could say as to the
danger of going out at night, the priest crossed the wood, descended
into the valley, and soon found, beside the body of a woman, who had
doubtless been killed by a stray ball of the police, an infant, and a
little boy of about four years old, who was trying in vain to awaken
his mother. Imagine Margarita's amazement when the priest returned
with two children in his arms.
'May all good saints defend us! What have you done, señor? We have
barely enough to live upon, and you bring two children! I suppose I
must beg from door to door, for you and for them. And, for mercy's
sake, who are these children? The sons of that brigand, gipsy, thief,
murderer, perhaps! I am sure they have never been baptised!' At this
moment the infant began to cry. 'And pray, Señor Clérigo, how do you
mean to feed that child? You know very well that we have no means of
paying a nurse. We must spoon-feed it, and nice nights that will give
me! It cannot be more than six months old, poor little creature,' she
added, as her master placed it in her arms. 'Fortunately, I have a
little milk here;' and forgetting her anger, she busied herself in
putting some milk on the fire, and then sat down beside it to warm the
infant, who seemed half-frozen. Her master watched her in silence, and
when at last he saw her kiss its little cheek, he turned away with a
quiet smile.
When at length the little one had been hushed into a gentle slumber,
and when Margarita, with the assistance of her master's cloak, and
some of her own clothes, had made a bed for the elder boy, and placed
him in it, the good man told her how the children had been committed
to his care, and the promise he had made, though not in words, to
protect them.
'That is very right and good, no doubt,' said Margarita; 'I only want
to know how we are all to live?' The priest opened his Bible, and read
aloud:
'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.'
'Amen!' said Margarita.
Twelve years passed by. The parish priest of San Pietro, who was now
more than seventy years old, was sitting in the sunshine at his door.
Near him, a boy of about twelve years old was reading aloud from the
Bible, looking occasionally towards a tall, fine-looking young man,
who was hard at work in a garden close by. Margarita, who was now
become blind, sat and listened. Suddenly, the sound of wheels was
heard, and the boy exclaimed: 'Oh! the beautiful carriage!' A splendid
carriage approached rapidly, and stopped before the door. A
richly-dressed servant approached, and asked for a cup of water for
his master.
'Carlos,' said the priest to the younger boy, 'go, bring water to the
gentleman; and add some wine, if he will accept it. Go quickly!' At
this moment, the carriage-door opened, and a gentleman, apparently
about fifty years old, alighted.
'Are these your nephews?' said he to the priest.
'They are more than that, señor; they are my children--the children of
my adoption.'
'How is that?'
'I will tell you, señor; for I am old and poor, and know but little of
the world, and am in much need of advice; for I know not what to do
with these two children.' He related the story we have just told. 'And
now, señor, what do you advise me to do?'
'Apply to one of the nobles of the court, who must assign you a
pension of four thousand ducats.'
'I asked you for advice, señor, and not for jest.'
'And then, your church must be rebuilt. We will call it the Church of
the Cup of Cold Water. Here is the plan. See, this is to be the
vicarage; and here, divided by this paling'----
'What does this mean? What would you say? And, surely, I remember that
voice, that face'----
'I am Don José della Ribeira; and twelve years ago, I was the brigand
José. I escaped from prison; and--for the revolution made great
changes--am now powerful. My children'----
He clasped them in his arms. And when at length he had embraced them a
hundred times, with tears, and smiles, and broken sentences; and when
all had in some degree recovered their composure, he took the hand of
the priest and said: 'Well, father, will you not accept the Church of
the Cup of Cold Water?' The old man, deeply affected, turned to
Margarita, and repeated:
'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.'
'Amen!' replied the aged woman, her voice tremulous from emotion.
A short time afterwards, Don José della Ribeira and his
two sons were present at the consecration of the church of
San-Pietro-del-Vaso-di-Aqua-Fria, one of the prettiest churches in the
neighbourhood of Sevilla.