The old man stretched out his staff and stopped the headlong dash of the boy. Then laying a hand lightly on his assailant’s head he looked smilingly toward Theresa.
“Neither prince nor emir am I, Christian maiden,” he said, “but the poor Morisco Abd-el-’Aman of Cordova, seeking my son Ali, who, men say, is servant to a family in Valladolid. Pray you if you have aught to eat give some to me, for I am famishing.”
This was not exactly martyrdom; it was, in fact, quite the opposite, and the little Theresa was puzzled as to her duty in the matter. Pedro, however, was not at all undecided.
“Give our bread and cake to a nasty old Moor?” he cried; “I should say we will not, will we, sister? We need it for ourselves. Besides, what dreadful thing is it that the Holy Inquisition does to people who succor the infidel Moors?”
Theresa shuddered. She knew too well all the stories of the horrible punishments that the Holy Office, known as the Inquisition of Spain, visited upon those who harbored Jews or aided the now degraded Moors. For so complete had been the conquest of the once proud possessors of Southern Spain, that they were usually known only by the contemptuous title of “Moriscoes,” and were despised and hated by their “chivalrous” Christian conquerors.
But little Theresa de Cepeda was of so loving and generous a nature that even the plea of an outcast and despised Morisco moved her to pity. From her earliest childhood she had delighted in helpful and generous deeds. She repeatedly gave away, so we are told, all her pocket-money in charity, and any sign of trouble or distress found her ready and anxious to extend relief. There was really a good deal of the angelic in little Theresa, and even the risk of arousing the wrath of the Inquisition, the walls of whose gloomy dungeon in Avila she had, so often looked upon with awe, could not withhold her from wishing to help this poor old man who was hunting for his lost son.
“Nay, brother,” she said to little Pedro, “it can be not so very great a crime to give food to a starving man”; and much to Pedro’s disgust, she opened the wallet and emptied their little store of provisions into the old beggar’s hand.
“And wither are ye bound, little ones?” asked this “tramp” of the long ago, as the children watched their precious dinner disappear behind his snowy beard.
“We are on a crusade, don Infidel,” replied Pedro, boldly. “A crusade against your armies and castles, perhaps to capture them, and thus gain the crown of martyrdom.”
The old Moor looked at them sadly. “There is scarce need for that, my children,” he said. “My people are but slaves; their armies and their castles are lost; their beautiful cities are ruined, and there is neither conquest nor martyrdom for Christian youths and maidens to gain among them. Go home, my little ones, and pray to Allah that you and yours may never know so much of sorrow and of trouble as do the poor Moriscoes of Spain this day.”