"Give them time," replied Pedro, "and they will vanquish the wheat, because they are the legitimate offspring of the soil. The wheat is its foster child. But, with the favor of God, wheat will not be lacking in the house for us and for more that may come."
They separated and Ventura disappeared in the olive-grove. Pedro remained looking after him.
"Not even a king," he said to himself, "has a son like mine. Nor is there his equal in all Spain. If he is noble in person, he is more noble in soul."
Ventura had advanced but few steps into the grove when he saw Perico at a little distance, coming from behind a tree with his gun.
"I have something in my face, thanks to you," he shouted, "that provokes laughter. I have also something in my hand that stops laughter. I am a coward and a killer of locusts, but I know how to rid myself of the reproach you have put upon me."
"Perico, what are you doing?" cried Ventura, running toward him to arrest the action. But the shot had been sent on its dreadful errand, and Ventura fell mortally wounded. Pedro heard the report and started.
"What is that?" he exclaimed, "but what would it be?" he added upon reflection. "Ventura has perhaps shot a partridge. It sounded near. I will go and see."
He hurriedly follows the path his son has taken, sees a form lying upon the ground; approaches it--God of earth and heaven! It is a wounded man! and that man is his son! The poor old man falls down beside him.
"Father," Ventura says, "I have some strength left; calm yourself and help me get to the hacienda; it is not far and let them send for a confessor, for I wish to die like a Christian."