tell his story to the people who gave him
the shelter he needed. And he needed assistance badly. His wound was not
dangerous, but his life was forfeited. The old Royalist being wrapped up
in his laughing madness, the two women arranged a hiding-place for the
wounded man in one of the huts amongst the fruit trees at the back of
the house. That hovel, an abundance of clear water while the fever was
on him, and some words of pity were all they could give. I suppose
he had a share of what food there was. And it would be but little; a
handful of roasted corn, perhaps a dish of beans, or a piece of bread
with a few figs. To such misery were those proud and once wealthy people
reduced."

VII

GENERAL SANTIERRA was right in his surmise. Such was the exact nature of
the assistance which Gaspar Ruiz, peasant son of peasants, received
from the Royalist family whose daughter had opened the door--of their
miserable refuge to his extreme distress. Her sombre resolution ruled
the madness of her father and the trembling bewilderment of her mother.

She had asked the strange man on the door-step, "Who wounded you?"

"The soldiers, senora," Gaspar Ruiz had answered, in a faint voice.

"Patriots?"

"Si."

"What for?"

"Deserter," he gasped, leaning against the wall under the scrutiny of
her black eyes. "I was left for dead over there."

She led him through the house out to a small hut of clay and reeds, lost
in the long grass of the overgrown orchard. He sank on a heap of maize
straw in a corner, and sighed profoundly.

"No one will look for you here," she said, looking down at him. "Nobody
comes near us. We too have been left for dead--here."

He stirred uneasily on his heap of dirty straw, and the pain in his neck
made him groan deliriously.

"I shall show Estaban some day that I am alive yet," he mumbled.

He accepted her assistance in silence, and the many days of pain went
by. Her appearances in the hut brought him relief and became connected
with the feverish dreams of angels which visited his couch; for Gaspar
Ruiz was instructed in the mysteries of his religion, and had even
been taught to read and write a little by the priest of his village. He
waited for her with impatience, and saw her pass out of the dark hut and
disappear in the brilliant sunshine with poignant regret. He discovered
that, while he lay there feeling so very weak, he could, by closing his
eyes, evoke her face with considerable distinctness