“Santa Maria! he a Christian, he looks more like a robber,” and muttering to herself, the housekeeper left the room.  During this parley, the stranger remained motionless at the threshold of the door; he was tall, with long black hair, and flashing eyes, his clothes were in tatters, and the long rifle which he carried excited distrust rather than favor.

“Must I go away?” he inquired.

The curate replied, with an emphatic gesture, “never shall he, whom I shelter, be driven away, or made unwelcome:  but sit down, put aside your gun, let us say grace, and to our repast.”

“I never quit my weapon; as the proverb says, two friends are one, my rifle is my best friend; I shall keep it between my knees.  Though you may not send me from your house till it suits me, there are others who would make me leave theirs against my will, and perhaps head-foremost.  Now to your health, let us eat.”  The curate himself, although a man of good appetite, was amazed at the voracity of the stranger, who seemed to bolt rather than eat almost the whole of the dish, besides drinking the whole flask of wine, and leaving none for his host, or scarcely a morsel of the enormous loaf which occupied a corner of the table.  Whilst he was eating so voraciously, he started at the slightest noise; if a gust of wind suddenly closed the door, he sprang up and leveling his rifle, seemed determined to repel intrusion; having recovered from his alarm, he again sat down, and went on with his repast.  “Now,” said he, speaking with his mouth full, “I must tax your kindness to the utmost.  I am wounded in the thigh, and eight days have passed without its being dressed.  Give me a few bits of linen, then you shall be rid of me.”

“I do not wish to rid myself of you,” replied the curate, interested in his guest in spite of his threatening demeanor, by his strange exciting conversation.  “I am somewhat of a doctor; you will not have the awkwardness of a country barber, or dirty bandages to complain of, you shall see.” so speaking, he drew forth, from a closet a bundle containing all things needed, and turning up his sleeves, prepared himself to discharge the duty of a surgeon.

The wound was deep, a ball had passed through the stranger’s thigh, who, to be able to walk, must have exerted a strength and courage more than human.  “You will not be able to proceed on your journey to-day,” said the curate, probing the wound with the satisfaction of an amateur artist.  “You must remain here to-night; good rest will restore your health and abate the inflammation, and the swelling will go down.”

“I must depart to-day, at this very hour,” replied the stranger, with a mournful sigh.  “There are some who wait for me, others who seek me,” he added with a ferocious smile.  “Come, let us see, have you done your dressing?  Good:  here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded.  Give me a loaf—­take this piece of gold in payment for your hospitality, and farewell.”  The curate refused the tendered gold with emphasis.  “As you please, pardon me—­farewell.”  So saying, the stranger departed, taking with him the loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly brought at her master’s order.  Soon his tall figure disappeared in the foliage of the wood about the village.