CHAPTER XI.

The care of the innkeeper's wife and the youth and robust constitution of Perico vanquished the fever. At the end of a fortnight he was able to rise.

Perico evinced all his gratitude to Martha in a manner more heartfelt than fluent.

"You must not thank me" said the good woman, "for truly, the face I put on when I saw you brought was not one of welcome; but I have taken a liking to you because I see that you are a good son and a good Christian."

Perico hung his head in deep grief and humiliation. His physical weakness had deadened in him the blind and furious impulse which had exalted him, as such impulse does sometimes exalt gentle and timid natures to a point past the limit which strong-minded and even violent men respect.

All that effervescence which caused such a surging of his passions, as gas causes the juice of the grape to ferment, had ceased, as the foam subsides upon the wine, leaving reflection, which, without diminishing the greatness of his wrongs, condemned his method of redressing them.

All the horror which the future inspired returned to Perico with returning strength, and it was not lessened when Andres, taking the occasion one day when his wife was about her work, said to him:

"My friend, now that you are recovered you must seek your living somewhere else, for--the more friendship, the more frankness, sir--when you were out of your head you talked of a murder you had committed. If it is true, and they find you here, we shall suffer for it, and that will not be right; the just ought not to pay for sinners; well-regulated charity, let Martha, who pretends to know better, say what she will, begins at home. Nobody but that pumpkin-headed wife of mine is capable of sustaining that Christian charity begins with one's neighbor. As to me, I tell you the truth, I want nothing to do with justice, for she has a heavy hand."

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Perico did not reply, but went with tearful eyes to take leave of Martha. The good soul felt his departure, for she had become fond of him. The memory of her son had attached Martha to the unfortunate young man, and the memory of his own mother had drawn Perico toward the woman who acted toward him a mother's part.

He took his gun, and was going out when he met the convict.

"Which way?" said the robber. "Do you clear out in this fashion, without so much as May God reward you! to the compassionate soul who picked you up? This isn't the right thing, comrade. Besides, where can you go hereabouts? Are you in a hurry to be put in the lock-up?"

Perico remained silent; he neither thought nor reasoned--had no will of his own. "Courage! and come along," proceeded the convict. "Here we are taking more trouble to help you than you will take to let yourself be helped." Perico followed him mechanically.

"Look, Martha," said Andres, seeing Perico at a distance in company with the robber, "look at your pet--and what a jewel he is, to be sure! There he goes with the convict."

"And what of it?" responded Martha. "I tell you, Andres, that he is a good son and a good Christian."

"An impostor and a vagabond, that has eaten up my hens--and you see where he is going, and yet say that he is good! The devil only understands women!"

Perico and the convict, making their way through thickets and difficult places, came at last to an elevation, upon which stood the captain leaning on his gun, and guarding the slumbers of eight men, who were lying around him on the slope. Near him grazed his beautiful horse, which lifted its head from time to time to regard its master.

"Here is this young man," said the convict as they drew near.

Without changing his position, the captain slowly turned his eyes and examined the new arrival from head to foot. His scrutiny finished, he asked,

"Are you a fugitive from justice?"

Perico inclined his head, but did not answer.

"There is no cause for fear," proceeded his questioner, and presently, in brief phrases, added,

"Men have fatal hours, and of these some are as red as blood and some as black as darkness itself. One is enough to destroy a man, and turn his heart to a stone which has neither pulse nor feeling, only weight. He remains lost, for the past is past, and there is nothing to do but bear it with pluck. Life is a fight, in which one must look before him, like a brave man, and not behind, like a poltroon."

"I cannot do it," exclaimed Perico vehemently. "If you knew--"

The captain, with an imperative gesture, extended his arm to silence him, and continued.

"Here, each one carries his own secrets within himself, a sealed packet, without awakening in the others either curiosity or interest. If you have nowhere to go, stay with us; here we defend all we have left, our life. Mine I do not guard because I value it, but to keep it from the headsman."

"But you rob?" said Perico.

"We must do something," responded the bandit, returning, like a tortoise, into his hard and impenetrable shell.

Perico neither accepted nor refused the proposition, he remained without volition, an inert body; chance disposed of his wretched existence, as the winds dispose of the dry and heavy sands of the desert.

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