“I do not come to thieve; and I don’t know whether or not I am off the road, though I see well enough that I am gone astray,” said the wounded man.  “But tell me, senores, is there any venta or place of entertainment where I can get a night’s lodging, and dress the wounds which these dogs have given me?”

“There is no venta or public place to which we can take you,” replied Andrew; “but as for a night’s lodging, and dressing your wounds, that you can have at our ranchos.  Come along with us; for though we are gipsies, we are not devoid of humanity.”

“God reward you!” said the man:  “take me whither you please, for my leg pains me greatly.”  Andrew lifted him up, and carried him along with the help of some of the other compassionate gipsies; for even among the fiends there are some worse than others, and among many bad men you may find one good.

It was a clear moonlight night, so that they could see that the person they carried was a youth of handsome face and figure.  He was dressed all in white linen, with a sort of frock of the same material belted round his waist.  They arrived at Andrew’s hut or shed, quickly kindled a fire, and fetched Preciosa’s grandmother to attend to the young man’s hurts.  She took some of the dogs’ hairs, fried them in oil, and after washing with wine the two bites she found on the patient’s left leg, she put the hairs and the oil upon them, and over this dressing a little chewed green rosemary.  She then bound the leg up carefully with clean bandages, made the sign of the cross over it, and said, “Now go to sleep, friend and with the help of God your hurts will not signify.”

Whilst they were attending to the wounded man, Preciosa stood by, eyeing him with great curiosity, whilst he did the same by her, insomuch that Andrew took notice of the eagerness with which he gazed; but he attributed this to the extraordinary beauty of Preciosa, which naturally attracted all eyes.  Finally, having done all that was needful for the youth, they left him alone on a bed of dry hay, not caring to question him then as to his road, or any other matter.

As soon as all the others were gone, Preciosa called Andrew aside, and said to him, “Do you remember, Andrew, a paper I let fall in your house, when I was dancing with my companions, and which caused you, I think, some uneasiness?”

“I remember it well,” said Andrew; “it was a madrigal in your praise, and no bad one either.”

“Well, you must know, Andrew, that the person who wrote those verses is no other than the wounded youth we have left in the hut.  I cannot be mistaken, for he spoke to me two or three times in Madrid, and gave me too a very good romance.  He was then dressed, I think, as a page,—­not an ordinary one, but like a favourite of some prince.  I assure you, Andrew, he is a youth of excellent understanding, and remarkably well behaved; and I cannot imagine what can have brought him hither, and in such a garb.”