'Yes; he was taken prisoner in Lisbon; a brave fellow—I knew him well,' replied the officer, with kindling eyes and lowering brow.
'My mother never held up her head afterwards—and—and three days ago she left me—and—and they brought her here,' said the boy, with a fresh fit of heavy weeping, as he pressed his knuckles into his inflamed eyes.
In tatters, and dusky in complexion, yet rich in colour, like the beggar-boys of Murillo's famous picture in the Dulwich Gallery, he was a handsome little fellow, with a clear olive skin, sparkling eyes of the deepest hazel, and thick, wavy black hair.
'Have you no brother or sister?' asked the officer, patting his uncovered head, for poor José was without hat or cap.
'None now. I had a sister once.'
'And she?'
'Was carried off by the French voltigeurs, and was never seen again. Poor Theresa!' said the boy, in a gasping voice.
'And have you no home, my little fellow?'
'None, but the church porch.'
'Then come with me, and I will find you another.'