HOW MARTIN SET OUT TO AVENGE HIS FATHER
Not far from the river Cea lived an old peasant named Ivan, who had been
a crossbow-man, in the time of the last Count of Castile, afterwards
lance-page, and finally squire. Tired of the dangerous and agitated life
which those of his profession had to go through, and being the possessor
of a little money, which, by economy, he had saved during several years,
he bought a cottage, with a few acres of land, retired to it with his
wife and children, and had lived there for some time, quite ignorant of
what was passing in the world, for his dwelling-place was in a lonely
valley, the quietude of which was only disturbed once a year by pilgrims
who passed through it on their way to the shrine which was near it.
On the night succeeding the day on which the annual festival was held
there, Ivan was sleeping tranquilly, for he had taken part in the
pilgrimage, when, at the first crow of the cock, someone knocked and
called out loudly at the door. The farmer awoke, went to his window,
and asked, by no means in a good temper--
"What drunken fellow is thumping at my door? By St. James! this is a
nice hour to disturb from their sleep people who have to get up early to
go to their field-work."
"Anger of God! what a churl you are, Señor Ivan!" answered the unknown
person, who did not appear to be in better humour than the farmer. "Open
the door at once, and cease your chattering, for there is no drunkard
here, or anything like one. Don't you know me?"
"May God forsake me if it is not that fool Martin!"
"The very same, confound you! Open at once, if you don't want me to
break in the door."
The farmer hastened to light a candle, and to let the stranger in. On
seeing him he started back, horror-struck: everything showed that the
newly arrived had been engaged, a very short time before, in a fierce
fight; his hands, his face, and even his clothes were covered with
blood.
"Glorious St. Isadore!" exclaimed Ivan, "what is the matter? You are
wounded?"
"In the soul!" replied the young man. "The wounds on my body matter
little, for they are only scratches that can easily be healed."
"Let me examine them for you."
"It is useless, Señor Ivan. Those which it is important for me to heal
are the wounds of my soul; the medicine you have to supply me with is a
lance, a crossbow, a sword, some arm or other, for I come to ask nothing
else of you."
"I shall give you one with pleasure, for there are plenty of arms in my
house, thanks to my old profession, and also to the need I have of them
in this lonely place, where I have often to defend myself against
bandits."
Ivan approached the light to one of the walls, on which were hung
various arms, and added--
"Take whichever you please, for the bravest knight of Leon or Castile
does not possess better tempered ones."
The young man took down a lance and also a sword, which he girt on with
as much skill as the most experienced cavalier could have used, and
said:--
"Thanks, Señor Ivan. God be with you and do not tell anyone that you
have seen me to-night."
"But, Martin, won't you tell me what you are going to do? What has
happened to you?"
"Some day you shall know, Señor Ivan."
"But where are you going, my son?"
"To avenge my father, who lies dead in the wood; and Beatrice, who has
already perhaps been dishonoured by Don Suero--may God curse him, and
may this lance soon pierce him through!"
"May it be so!" replied the farmer, embracing the young man, who,
throwing the lance across his shoulder, went forth from the house and
disappeared in the darkness.
Martin walked a long distance through the dark woods, until he came to
another house, situated in the midst of large and fertile meadows.
This house, or rather stable, belonged to Don Suero, and in it was kept
a magnificent stud of horses, the property of the count, which also had
the use of the meadows, and of which a single groom had the care.
Martin struck a heavy blow on the door of the stable.
"Who is there?" called out the groom.
"Open, if you do not wish me to break in the door, and your head as
well."
The groom considered himself too weak to resist a man who spoke in such
a way. He opened the door, trembling, and said--
"Pardon, sir cavalier."
"I am not a cavalier," interrupted Martin; "but I want to be one. Get
out the best horse you have in the stables."
"I would be delighted to please your honour, but"--
"'Fore God! he addresses me with 'buts'!" exclaimed Martin, placing his
hand on his sword.
"Pardon me, sir cavalier," the groom said, terrified, going into the
stalls and unloosing one of the best horses; "I only wished to tell you
that my master will almost beat me to death when he finds that I have
let one of his best horses be sto--I mean taken away. Does this one
please your lordship?"
"Yes," answered Martin; "put that saddle on it, which I see hanging up
there."
"Sir knight, that saddle is the one which is used in trying the paces of
the horses when my master comes to select one, and if you take it what
will become of me?"
"Be quick, I tell you; it will be only a few blows more or less," said
Martin in a threatening tone.
The groom saddled the horse without further reply. Martin buckled on a
pair of spurs, which he demanded from him, and, persuaded that the man
had not recognised him, he thought it most prudent to say no more. He
then sprang upon the horse, and giving the excellent steed a sharp
stroke, he disappeared through the adjacent fields.
Not far from the road which led from Burgos to Leon there was a hill,
situated so near it that its course could be seen from it for a long
distance; this hill was the resort of a band of robbers who at that time
were the terror of travellers who journeyed through that district.
Martin rode on to it, and arrived there shortly after daybreak. He
advanced a little into a wood which grew on the hill, and cried out,
making a kind of speaking-trumpet of his hand--
"Hallo, bandits!"
The look-out, whom the robbers had stationed not far from the place
where Martin stopped, had perceived him a short time before he spoke,
and as he saw that he came alone he did not think it necessary to give
the signal of alarm to his companions.
"Where is the cavalier going?" he cried out in his turn.
"To ask that I may be admitted into your honourable band."
Martin knew that honour is such a fine thing that even bandits like it
to be attributed to them.
"If such is your intention," said the look-out, "follow the path you see
then, and at the end of it you will find the entire band, whose chief
will, perchance, concede to you the honour which you solicit."
The young man then advanced, and in a short time discovered the bandits,
who were about twenty in number, and who were lying under trees, to the
trunks of which their horses were fastened. Martin could scarcely
forbear from shuddering and feeling a sense of repugnance, when he saw
the ferocity which was stamped on their visages, and when he heard the
filthy language they were using. On perceiving him, one of them arose,
who was distinguished from the others by his garb and by the large scars
which were on his hands and face. Martin began to make known to him the
object which led him thither, but the captain of the bandits, for it was
no other, interrupted him, saying--
"Brother, do you think we are deaf? We have heard you and we now know
for what you come. Tell me, however, what is it that entitles you to be
admitted into the band of the Raposo,[1] for by that name the son of my
mother is known?"
[1] A fox.
"Anger of God, Don Raposo, if it were any other but you who asked me
that question, you should soon pay a visit to your friend Señor Lucifer.
Do you not see, confound you, the blood which I have on my hands and
garments, and the wounds on my face. This blood does not come from
slaughtering cattle, nor those scratches from a jealous sweetheart. Go
to the place I shall mention to you, and you will find the body of the
cavalier whose life I have taken, in order to provide myself with these
arms and this steed, and when you are coming back fetch me the dagger
which I forgot to draw from his breast."
"You don't waste much respect on him who is to be your captain," said
the Raposo; "but I desire to be indulgent towards you as a reward for
the good work you have done. I believe what you say, for you could not
have become possessed in any other way of these arms and that splendid
horse, for your dress and your manner shows me that you are just as much
a cavalier as I am a bishop. However, if you wish to become a member of
our honourable brotherhood, you must take the usual oath."
"I will take a hundred of them if you like," answered Martin,
dismounting.
The captain of the bandits walked over to a tree, at the foot of which
were heaped up a great number of sacred vessels and ornaments, which
they had stolen that night from a neighbouring church, and taking up a
crucifix of considerable value he held it up before the youth, and
said--
"Will you swear fidelity to your brethren? Will you swear to carry off
women, to enter and plunder houses and churches, palaces and huts? Will
you swear to rob and kill priests the same as laymen, poor the same as
rich, women the same as men, children the same as grown-up people?"
"Yes, I swear!" replied Martin, firmly resolved, however, not to keep so
sacrilegious an oath, for he did not consider himself bound to do so,
taking it only with his lips and not from his soul.
"Salute our new brother!" said the Raposo, turning towards his
companions. They went up to him and embraced him one after the other.
"Brother," continued the captain, "when this ceremony was ended, you now
must know that he who is honoured by being received into our band, is
obliged to celebrate his admission by giving a skin of good wine to all
the members of the confraternity. I suppose that the late owner of your
arms and steed had also a well-lined purse, full of gold coins, and
therefore, I expect that you will be generous towards us."
Martin was rather perplexed at this requirement, for he had no money
whatever; knowing, however, that with such people he must show himself a
braggart in every way, he replied--
"If another had expressed a doubt of my generosity, he would lose his
tongue for it. I have not a single miserable coin about me; what do I
want with money? By all the saints in heaven and all the demons in hell,
do you imagine that I am one of those honest peasants who only drink
when they can pay for it?"
All the bandits pulled out purses full of gold, and exclaimed--
"Brother, take as much money as you want; we will lend it to you until
we make our next haul; you can then pay us back out of your share of
it."
"I thank you," replied Martin; "but I won't take it, for I don't want
it. You will see, by Señor Noah, that I'll manage to get wine enough to
make half Castile drunk, even if, to procure it, I have to send to the
devil all the innkeepers within ten leagues round us."
Thus speaking, he gave spurs to his horse, rode through the thick wood,
and disappeared, light as the wind, in the direction of a lonely
hostelry, which could scarcely be distinguished on the distant horizon.
He paid no attention to the voices of his new comrades, who called after
him, cautioning him of the risk he ran of falling into the hands of a
patrol of the Salvadores,[1] bodies of armed horsemen who, by command of
the king, requested to give it by the Count of Carrion and other
grandees, wandered through that district for the purpose of protecting
travellers from the attacks of the highwaymen.
[1] Saviours, deliverers.
We know not how Martin arranged matters with the innkeeper, but two
hours had scarcely passed when he returned, bringing, thrown across his
saddle-bow, a large leather wine-bag, which contained fully twenty
gallons, according to our modern measures. Shouts of joy and loud
applause received him on his return.
"He is a good comrade, and will be the pride of the band of the Raposo."
"What an aroma that wine has! It is three years old, at least."
"I'd like to have some of those Moorish dogs here, to see if they would
turn up their noses at that gift of God."
"The monks of Sahagun never taste better."
"Thunder and lightning, what a night we'll have with it!"
"I'd turn Moor at once if Mahomet were only as good as it is."
"The innkeeper was a heretic, and kept it without baptizing it."
"Yes, yes, the wine-bag is a Moor--it is a Moor!"
"Then let us attack him. To arms--to arms! War, war!"
"War to the Moor! Up for St. James and Spain!"
Such were some of the exclamations which followed the arrival of Martin.
Having uttered these cries, the bandits took several sacred vessels from
the heap whence the Raposo took the crucifix on which he had
administered the oath to Martin, and the sacrilegious ruffians filled
them with wine and lifted them to their impure lips.
Martin shuddered at the sight of this impious profanation and did not
take any part in it.
The Raposo noticed this, and said to him--
"Brother, you would make a bad priest if you can't drink out of a
chalice. Is it because you have not taken orders?"
"By Lucifer!" exclaimed Martin, placing his hand on his sword, feeling
persuaded that he was lost if he did not put on a bold face. "Know, Don
Raposo, or Don Villain, that if I have not orders I at least have a
sword, and that if I do not drink wine, I'll drink the blood of anyone
that insults me as you do."
"So, low peasant," replied the Raposo, also placing his hand on his
steel, "you dare to speak thus to your captain! I'll resign my
honourable position if my dagger does not teach you to be respectful."
The two opponents held their naked swords, and were about to rush on
each other; all the bandits, however, hastened to make peace, trying to
persuade the Raposo that their new comrade, instead of meriting
punishment, deserved praise, since by his audacity he showed what might
be expected from him when occasion should arise. These reasonings
appeared to be satisfactory to the Raposo; he laid aside his vexation
and stretched out his hand to Martin, saying--
"Pardon, brother; I only wished to try your mettle, and I am satisfied
with it."
"You, señor captain, must pardon me," replied the young man, clasping
the rough hand of the bandit; "but know that I cannot bear being
calumniated, by being supposed incapable of doing what my comrades do.
Do you think that it is scruples of conscience that prevent me from
using these vessels? I want a big draught of wine to satisfy my thirst,
and I shall not drink it from a nutshell, as you do."
Thus speaking, Martin took the helmet from the head of one of the
robbers, poured wine into it and emptied it at a draught, amid the
applause and acclamations of the bandits.
They continued without ceasing their libations, the wine-bag was getting
emptier and emptier, and drunkenness was overmastering all of them,
including the captain. Notwithstanding, Martin kept his head clear,
whether it was that he was more accustomed to wine, or, which is more
probable, that he drank very little, although he lifted the helmet often
to his mouth, taking advantage of the condition of his companions.
The state in which they then were was horrible to see; their lips only
uttered blasphemies, obscene expressions, and disconnected phrases; and
in the end sleep took possession of the greater part of them. Even the
look-out had abandoned his post, seeing that his comrades did not come
to relieve him, and as he was desirous of participating in their
libations and uproarious merriment.
It appeared to Martin that he heard the sound of the footsteps of horses
in the direction of the main road, and, turning in that direction, he
cried out--
"The Salvadores! Up, comrades! the Salvadores!"
Five or six of the bandits arose on hearing that cry, and, following the
example of Martin, hastened to mount their horses. Some of the others,
including the Raposo, were fast asleep, and the rest, having tried to
rise, fell back again on the ground.
The danger was imminent, the situation was desperate; the hill extended
in its entire length only about fifteen hundred paces, and was
surrounded on all sides by an extensive and bare plain. The only exit
from the wood was the path which led to the road, for the roughness of
the ground and the closeness of the trees and bushes made it impossible
for horses to proceed in any other direction. If Martin and his
companions abandoned their steeds, and hid themselves in the brushwood,
they would be very soon discovered; if they tried to go on foot across
the plain, they could easily be overtaken by the Salvadores, who were
mounted on swift horses. What course should then be adopted? This
question was asked him by the robbers, when the band of the Salvadores,
only about forty paces distant from them, was advancing in their
direction as quickly as the nature of the ground permitted.
"Companions," said Martin, placing himself at their head, "no other
resource remains for us but to break through them, sword in hand, and
endeavour to reach the plain, whether we are killed or not."
"Yes, yes, forward!" they all cried out, knowing that Martin had
indicated the only means of escape left for them, and they put spurs to
their horses. As that of Martin was the best, the least fatigued, and
the lightest, the young man preceded his comrades by a short distance,
and rushing, with sword in hand, into the midst of the Salvadores, he
unhorsed one of them with almost each stroke, and the others followed
him, and broke through their opponents, not less boldly and promptly. At
last they succeeded in gaining the main road, from whence they heard the
death-cries of those whom they had left in the wood, struck down by the
swords of the Salvadores; they then fled across the plain in the
direction of the mountains of Oca.
Martin had received several wounds, although none of them were serious,
and was losing much blood. After some time they arrived at a small hill,
surrounded by trees on all sides, and from which the surrounding country
could be seen for a considerable distance.
"Brother, let us dismount here, that we may examine your wounds," said
his companions to Martin.
They at once dismounted, and all the bandits embraced Martin, calling
him their deliverer.
"You shall be our captain," said one of them, "for you are worth more
than a hundred like Raposo."
"Yes, yes, you shall be our captain, brother. Long live our captain!"
they all cried out unanimously and with enthusiasm.
"I thank you, comrades," replied Martin; "and I swear by those dogs of
Salvadores whom my good sword has sent to the other world, that I shall
prove myself worthy of the honour you confer on me. You have heard the
cries of agony of our companions, who have been cowardly butchered by
those fellows?"
"Yes, yes, we have heard them! Poor Captain Raposo!"
"Well, then, it is for us to avenge them. You do not yet know the name
of your new captain. I call myself the Vengador,[1] brothers. Let the
band, then, of the Vengador be as much feared as was that of the Raposo;
war to the death against the grandees who urged on the king to institute
the brotherhood of the Salvadores. At present we are weak, but in a
short time we shall be strong; we are persecuted to-day, to-morrow we
shall be protected everywhere, if you will only obey my orders and be
guided by my advice."
[1] Avenger.
"We shall be your slaves, brother captain. You are skilful and brave, we
owe you our safety, and we trust in you to avenge our comrades."
"Now listen, brothers," continued Martin; "I wish to explain to you what
our conduct is to be from this day."
"But, captain," interrupted one of the band, "let us first bandage your
wounds, for you will lose much blood if we don't do so."
"No, by Beelzebub! My blood must run till the venom, which the cowardly
conduct of those vile Salvadores has put into it, has all left it."
This answer of their bold captain captivated more and more the hearts of
the bandits, to whose eyes tears came--tears which they would not have
shed on hearing the pitiful wailings of poor peasants from whom they had
stolen the small store with which they had hoped to support their
families; of unhappy parents whose daughter was about to be their
victim; of the sad wife whom their swords had condemned to widowhood; of
the weak children whom they had made orphans, without means of
subsistence.
"Hear me, brothers," continued the Vengador; "from to-day, war to the
strong and help to the weak! If we go near the poor, it must be only for
the purpose of alleviating their misery with what we shall have taken
from the powerful. Have any of you daughters or a wife?"
"Yes," replied one of the robbers; "I have a daughter who is worth more
than those of the king, and I love her more than the apple of my eyes."
"I have a wife," answered another, "and, although a peasant, she is of
more value than the most noble dame in Castile. For this I love her as
well as people say the son of the Grandee of Vivar loves the daughter of
De Gormaz."
"Well, then, what would you do if your daughter were torn away from
you?"
"Anger of God! If such were done, I would never rest till my dagger was
buried in the heart of him who took her from me, even were he hid in the
bowels of the earth, even if he fled to the ends of the world! Brother
captain, say no more, for God's sake; thinking only of such a thing
makes my blood boil."
"And you," he said, turning to the other, "what would you do if your
wife were taken from you and dishonoured?"
"If such happened," he exclaimed, placing his hand on his dagger with an
instinctive movement, and his eyes flashing fire, "my sword would pierce
a hundred hearts and then my own! But for what reason do you ask us such
questions, captain?"
"Because I wish to put you on your guard,--you on account of your wife,
and you, of your daughter, if they live in this district; for there is
in it a ruffianly count, who carries off wives from their husbands, and
daughters from their fathers."
"Who, then, is that count?" asked all the bandits, full of indignation.
"The Count of Carrion," replied Martin, repressing with difficulty the
joy he felt on seeing how successfully he had disposed his companions to
aid him in his projects of vengeance. "The Count of Carrion," he
continued, "is the most cruel, the most treacherous, and the worst of
men; when you return home to clasp your daughters or your wives to your
hearts, perchance you will find that he has stolen them from you."
"May the earth open and may we sink into hell, if we suffer such a
wretch to live any longer!" exclaimed the robbers; and Martin continued,
more warmly and solemnly--
"Yes, yes, comrades, let the Count of Carrion die, if we ourselves do
not desire to die like the Raposo and the greater part of his band. It
is that count who has sacrificed our brothers, for to him is due the
creation of the brotherhood of the Salvadores."
"Let us attack his castle!" all exclaimed; "let us bury our swords in
the breast of that traitor count!"
"But Don Suero, for such is his name, will be able to say to us, that if
he carries off young girls and married women, we also do the same; that
if he attacks and wounds poor people, and deprives them of their means
of subsistence, we also do the same."
"But from this day forward we shall not do such things. Let us all now
swear that we will plunge our daggers in the breast of any comrade who
dares to commit such crimes." Thus spoke the bandit who had a daughter.
Without the slightest hesitation, they all then took a solemn oath, that
in future they would not ill-treat women, or injure and rob the poor and
helpless.
Martin now began to feel weak on account of the quantity of blood he had
lost, and considered that he should not delay any longer the binding of
his wounds.
One of the bandits gathered some herbs that were abundant in that
country, and applied them to the wounds of his captain, having first
washed them in water brought in a helmet from an adjacent spring. They
were bound up with bandages, made from a handkerchief which was torn up
for that purpose.
The much reduced band of the Vengador rested under the trees of the
thick wood, where the horses found abundant pasture; and when the vesper
bells began to ring in the surrounding villages, the bandits mounted
their horses and, according to the orders of their captain, continued
their way towards the Sierra de Oca.