From the Hospital of the Resurrection, which stands just beyond the Puerta del Campo, in Valladolid, there issued one day a soldier, who, by the excessive paleness of his countenance, and the weakness of his limbs, which obliged him to, lean upon his sword, showed clearly to all who set eyes on him that, though the weather was not very warm, he must have sweated a good deal in the last few weeks.  He had scarcely entered the gate of the city, with tottering steps, when he was accosted by an old friend who had not seen him for the last six months, and who approached the invalid, making signs of the cross as if he had seen a ghost.  “What; is all this?” he cried; “do I, indeed, behold the Senor Alferez[58] Campuzano?  Is it possible that I really see you in this country?  Why, I thought you were in Flanders trailing a pike, instead of hobbling along with your sword for a walking-stick.  How pale—­how emaciated you look!”

[58] Alferez, Ensign.

“As to whether I am in this country or elsewhere, Signor Licentiate Peralta, the fact that you now see me is a sufficient answer,” replied Campuzano; “as for your other questions, all I can tell you is, that I have just come out of that hospital, where I have been confined for a long time in a dreadful state of health, brought upon me by the conduct of a woman I was indiscreet enough to make my wife.”

“You have been married, then?” said Peralta.

“Yes, Senor.”

“Married without benefit of clergy, I presume.  Marriages of that sort bring their own penance with them.”

“Whether it was without benefit of clergy I cannot say,” replied the Alferez; “but I can safely aver that it was not without benefit of physic.  Such were the torments of body and soul which my marriage brought upon me, that those of the body cost me forty sudations to cure them, and, as for those of the soul, there is no remedy at all that can relieve them.  But excuse me, if I cannot hold a long conversation in the street; another day I will, with more convenience, relate to you my adventures, which are the strangest and most singular you ever heard in all the days of your life.”

“That will not do,” said the licentiate; “I must have you come to my lodgings, and there we will do penance together.[59] You will have an olla, very fit for a sick man; and though it is scantly enough for two, we will make up the deficiency with a pie and a few slices of Rute ham, and, above all, with a hearty welcome, not only now, but whenever you choose to claim it.”

[59] A common form of invitation, meaning we will partake of a poor repast.

Campuzano accepted the polite invitation.  They turned into the church of San Lorente and heard mass, and then Peralta took his friend home, treated him as he had promised, repeated his courteous offers, and requested him after dinner to relate his adventures.  Campuzano, without more ado, began as follows:—­