"Look, look, Andres!" exclaimed Martha; "he has the scapular of our Lady of Carmel around his neck."
And as if the sight or influence of the blessed object had awakened in her all the gentle sentiments of Christian humility, or as if the sacred precept, "Thy neighbor as thyself," uttered by the brotherhood in united devotion, had resounded clearly, she began to exclaim: "You were right, Andres, it is a work of charity to assist him, poor fellow! How young he is, and how forsaken! His poor mother! Come, come, Andres, what are you doing, standing there like a post? Go! hurry! bring me some wine to rub his temples; and kill a hen, for I am going to make him some broth."
"So it is," soliloquized Andres, as he went out--"at first, wouldn't have him in the house; now she will turn the house out of the windows for him. That's the way with women. It is hard to understand them."
On the following night, a man of evil face and repugnant aspect came to the inn. This man had been in the penitentiary, and was nicknamed the convict.
"God be with you, sir," said the innkeeper, with more fear than cordiality, "what might be your pleasure?"
"A whim of the captain's, curse him! for haven't I come to ask after the sick, like the porter of a convent?"
"He is not doing very well," answered the innkeeper; "he is in a raging fever, is out of his mind, and talks of a murder he has done--of dead men's heads."
"Ho! so then he is a man that can handle arms," said the convict. "Let's have a look at him."
They mounted to the garret, and the innkeeper continued:
"All day long I have been in a cold sweat with fear. There have been people in the house, and even soldiers--if they had heard him!"