I was inclined to think she wanted to have somebody's throat cut, and I had a fair suspicion the throat in question was my own. To all her torrent of eloquence Don Jose's only reply was two or three shortly spoken words. At this the gipsy cast a glance of the most utter scorn at him, then, seating herself Turkish-fashion in a corner of the room, she picked out an orange, tore off the skin, and began to eat it.
Don Jose took hold of my arm, opened the door, and led me into the street. We walked some two hundred paces in the deepest silence. Then he stretched out his hand.
"Go straight on," he said, "and you'll come to the bridge."That instant he turned his back on me and departed at a great pace. Itook my way back to my inn, rather crestfallen, and considerably out of temper. The worst of all was that, when I undressed, I discovered my watch was missing.
Various considerations prevented me from going to claim it next day, or requesting the /Corregidor/ to be good enough to have a search made for it. I finished my work on the Dominican manuscript, and went on to Seville. After several months spent wandering hither and thither in Andalusia, I wanted to get back to Madrid, and with that object I had to pass through Cordova. I had no intention of making any stay there, for I had taken a dislike to that fair city, and to the ladies who bathed in the Guadalquivir. Nevertheless, I had some visits to pay, and certain errands to do, which must detain me several days in the old capital of the Mussulman princes.
The moment I made my appearance in the Dominican convent, one of the monks, who had always shown the most lively interest in my inquiries as to the site of the battlefield of Munda, welcomed me with open arms, exclaiming:
"Praised be God! You are welcome! My dear friend. We all thought you were dead, and I myself have said many a /pater/ and ave/ (not that Iregret them!) for your soul. Then you weren't murdered, after all?
That you were robbed, we know!"
"What do you mean?" I asked, rather astonished.
"Oh, you know! That splendid repeater you used to strike in the library whenever we said it was time for us to go into church. Well, it has been found, and you'll get it back.""Why," I broke in, rather put out of countenance, "I lost it--""The rascal's under lock and key, and as he was known to be a man who would shoot any Christian for the sake of a /peseta/, we were most dreadfully afraid he had killed you. I'll go with you to the /Corregidor/, and he'll give you back your fine watch. And after that, you won't dare to say the law doesn't do its work properly in Spain.""I assure you," said I, "I'd far rather lose my watch than have to give evidence in court to hang a poor unlucky devil, and especially because--because----""Oh, you needn't be alarmed! He's thoroughly done for; they might hang him twice over. But when I say hang, I say wrong. Your thief is an /Hidalgo/. So he's to be garrotted the day after to-morrow, without fail. So you see one theft more or less won't affect his position.
Would to God he had done nothing but steal! But he has committed several murders, one more hideous than the other." In 1830, the noble class still enjoyed this privilege. Nowadays, under the constitutional /regime/, commoners have attained the same dignity.
"What's his name?"
"In this country he is only known as Jose Navarro, but he has another Basque name, which neither your nor I will ever be able to pronounce.
By the way, the man is worth seeing, and you, who like to study the peculiar features of each country, shouldn't lose this chance of noting how a rascal bids farewell to this world in Spain. He is in jail, and Father Martinez will take you to him."So bent was my Dominican friend on my seeing the preparations for this "neat little hanging job" that I was fain to agree. I went to see the prisoner, having provided myself with a bundle of cigars, which Ihoped might induce him to forgive my intrusion.
I was ushered into Don Jose's presence just as he was sitting at table. He greeted me with a rather distant nod, and thanked me civilly for the present I had brought him. Having counted the cigars in the bundle I had placed in his hand, he took out a certain number and returned me the rest, remarking that he would not need any more of them.
I inquired whether by laying out a little money, or by applying to my friends, I might not be able to do something to soften his lot. He shrugged his shoulders, to begin with, smiling sadly. Soon, as by an after-thought, he asked me to have a mass said for the repose of his soul.
Then he added nervously: "Would you--would you have another said for a person who did you a wrong?""Assuredly I will, my dear fellow," I answered. "But no one in this country has wronged me so far as I know."He took my hand and squeezed it, looking very grave. After a moment's silence, he spoke again.
"Might I dare to ask another service of you? When you go back to your own country perhaps you will pass through Navarre. At all events you'll go by Vittoria, which isn't very far off.""Yes," said I, "I shall certainly pass through Vittoria. But I may very possibly go round by Pampeluna, and for your sake, I believe Ishould be very glad to do it."
"Well, if you do go to Pampeluna, you'll see more than one thing that will interest you. It's a fine town. I'll give you this medal," he showed me a little silver medal that he wore hung around his neck.
"You'll wrap it up in paper"--he paused a moment to master his emotion --"and you'll take it, or send it, to an old lady whose address I'll give you. Tell her I am dead--but don't tell her how I died."I promised to perform his commission. I saw him the next day, and spent part of it in his company. From his lips I learned the sad incidents that follow.
