An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard.  The stranger reappeared, bleeding, and wounded in the breast.  He was ghastly, as if dying.

“Here,” said he, presenting to the old priest some pieces of gold.  “My children—­in the ravine—­in the wood—­near the little brook.”

He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in, arms in hand; they met with no resistance from the wounded man, whom they closely bound, and, after some time, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but in spite of all his remarks on the danger of moving a man so severely wounded, they placed him on a cart.

“Basta,” said they, “he can but die.  He is the great robber, Don Jose della Ribera.”  Jose thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head, then asked for a glass of water, and as the priest stooped to put it to his lips, he faintly said, “You remember.”

The curate replied with a nod, and when the troop had departed, in spite of the remonstrances of Margarita, who represented to him the danger of going out in the night, and the inutility of such a step, he quickly crossed the wood toward the ravine, and there found the dead body of a woman, killed, no doubt, by some stray shot from the guards.  A baby lay at her breast, by her side a little boy of about four years old, who was endeavoring to wake her, pulling her by the sleeve, thinking she had fallen asleep, and calling her mamma.  One may judge of Margarita’s surprise when the curate returned with two children on his arms.

“Santa Madre!  What can this mean!  What will you do in the night?  We have not even sufficient food for ourselves, and yet you bring two children.  I must go and beg from door to door, for them and ourselves.  And who are these children?  The sons of a bandit—­a gipsy; and worse, perhaps.  Have they ever been baptized?”

At this moment, the infant uttered a plaintive cry:  “What will you do to feed this baby? we cannot afford a nurse; we must use the bottle, and you have no idea of the wretched nights we shall have with him.”

“You will sleep in spite of all,” replied the good curate.

“O! santa Maria, he cannot be more than six months old!  Happily I have a little milk here, I must warm it,” and forgetting her anger, Margarita took the infant from the priest, kissed it, and soothed it to rest.  She knelt before the fire, stirred the embers to heat the milk quicker, and when this little one had had enough, she put him to sleep, and the other had his turn.  Whilst Margarita gave him some supper, undressed him, and made him a bed for the night, of the priest’s cloak, the good old man related to her how he had found the children; in what manner they had been bequeathed to him.

“O! that is fine and good,” said Margarita, “but how can they and we be fed?”

The curate took the Bible, and read aloud—­

“Whosoever shall give, even a cup of cold water, to one of the least, being a disciple; verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward.”