The old Villaseñor wished this also to be added to the picture, and all agreed that it should be done, and that the history of such wonderful and unheard-of adventures ought not to be merely depicted upon a perishable canvass, but should be written on tables of bronze, and graven on the memories of men.
Meanwhile Villaseñor desired to keep the picture, if only to look upon the well portrayed likenesses of his children, and the unequalled beauty of Periander and Auristella.
In a few days the departure was determined upon, that they might accomplish their vow at Rome. Antonio, the father, remained at home, but the younger Antonio would not stay behind, nor his sister, the young Constance, whose affection for Auristella was such, as I have said before, that it would have carried her, not only to Rome, but if it could be done together, she would gladly have accompanied her to the other world.
The day of parting came, and they had tears, and embraces, and grievous sighs, especially from Ricla, who felt in losing her children as if her very heart went with them. The grandfather bestowed his blessing upon them all, for the blessing of an old person is a thing that avails much in such undertakings.
They took one of the servants of the house along with them to be of service on the journey, and set out, leaving the parental home sorrowful; and half in joy, half in sadness, went on their way.
CHAPTER X.
Long pilgrimages involve various events, and as this variety is composed of different things, so also must the causes be different. Our history shows this well; the thread of it is broken by the incidents that occur, making us doubt whether to relate them, because all that happens is not good to be narrated, and may be passed over without notice, and without lessening the interest of the story. There are some actions although great, yet upon which we ought to be silent; others so small they are not worthy of being described; for the excellence of this history is, that everything therein written has the relish or seasoning of the truth that goes along with it, which a fabulous history has not. It is necessary in it to suit the events with correct taste, and with so much probability, that in spite of the fiction which would clash with the understanding, the whole may be harmonious.
Profiting then by this truth, I will tell you how the lovely little band of pilgrims, pursuing their journey, arrived at a place, neither very large nor very small, the name of which I forget; and in the midst of the open place of the town, through which they must necessarily pass, they saw a crowd of persons, all attentively listening to, and looking at, two young men, in the garb of recently freed captives, who were describing the story of a painting that lay on the ground before them. It appeared that they had taken off two heavy chains that were near them,—proofs and witnesses of their misfortunes;—and one of them, who appeared about four-and-twenty years old, spoke in a clear voice, and very eloquent tongue, ever and anon cracking a sort of whip that he held in his hand, in such a way as to make a sound in the air like what a coachman makes when he chastises or threatens his horses, by cracking his driving whip over their heads.