things needed, and turning up his sleeves, prepared himself to
discharge the duty of a surgeon.

The wound was deep, a ball had passed through the stranger's thigh, who,
to be able to walk, must have exerted a strength and courage more than
human. "You will not be able to proceed on your journey to-day," said the
curate, probing the wound with the satisfaction of an amateur artist.
"You must remain here to-night; good rest will restore your health and
abate the inflammation, and the swelling will go down."

"I must depart to-day, at this very hour," replied the stranger, with a
mournful sigh. "There are some who wait for me, others who seek me," he
added with a ferocious smile. "Come, let us see, have you done your
dressing? Good: here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded.
Give me a loaf--take this piece of gold in payment for your hospitality,
and farewell." The curate refused the tendered gold with emphasis. "As
you please, pardon me--farewell." So saying, the stranger departed,
taking with him the loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly brought at
her master's order. Soon his tall figure disappeared in the foliage of
the wood about the village.

An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard. The stranger
reappeared, bleeding, and wounded in the breast. He was ghastly, as if
dying.

"Here," said he, presenting to the old priest some pieces of gold. "My
children--in the ravine--in the wood--near the little brook."

He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in, arms in hand; they met
with no resistance from the wounded man, whom they closely bound, and,
after some time, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but in spite of
all his remarks on the danger of moving a man so severely wounded, they
placed him on a cart.

"Basta," said they, "he can but die. He is the great robber, Don Jose
della Ribera." Jose thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head,
then asked for a glass of water, and as the priest stooped to put it to
his lips, he faintly said, "You remember."

The curate replied with a nod, and when the troop had departed, in spite
of the remonstrances of Margarita, who represented to him the danger of
going out in the night, and the inutility of such a step, he quickly
crossed the wood toward the ravine, and there found the dead body of a
woman, killed, no doubt, by some stray shot from the guards. A baby lay
at her breast, by her side a little boy of about four years old, who was