The Alhambra 35

The Alhambra 35

The water-carrier’s wife was now as one distracted. “This comes,” said

she, “of your foolish good-nature, always running into scrapes to oblige

others. What will become of us when this corpse is found in our house?

We shall be sent to prison as murderers; and if we escape with our

lives, shall be ruined by notaries and alguazils.”

 

Poor Peregil was in equal tribulation, and almost repented himself of

having done a good deed. At length a thought struck him. “It is not yet

day,” said he; “I can convey the dead body out of the city, and bury it

in the sands on the banks of the Xenil. No one saw the Moor enter our

dwelling, and no one will know anything of his death.”

 

So said, so done. The wife aided him; they rolled the body of the

unfortunate Moslem in the mat on which he had expired, laid it across

the ass, and Peregil set out with it for the banks of the river.

 

As ill luck would have it, there lived opposite to the water-carrier a

barber named Pedrillo Pedrugo, one of the most prying, tattling, and

mischief-making of his gossip tribe. He was a weasel-faced,

spider-legged varlet, supple and insinuating; the famous barber of

Seville could not surpass him for his universal knowledge of the affairs

of others, and he had no more power of retention than a sieve. It was

said that he slept but with one eye at a time, and kept one ear

uncovered, so that even in his sleep he might see and hear all that was

going on. Certain it is, he was a sort of scandalous chronicle for the

quidnuncs of Granada, and had more customers than all the rest of his

fraternity.

 

This meddlesome barber heard Peregil arrive at an unusual hour at night,

and the exclamations of his wife and children. His head was instantly

popped out of a little window which served him as a look-out, and he saw

his neighbor assist a man in Moorish garb into his dwelling. This was so

strange an occurrence, that Pedrillo Pedrugo slept not a wink that

night. Every five minutes he was at his loophole, watching the lights

that gleamed through the chinks of his neighbor’s door, and before

daylight he beheld Peregil sally forth with his donkey unusually laden.

 

The inquisitive barber was in a fidget; he slipped on his clothes, and,

stealing forth silently, followed the water-carrier at a distance, until

he saw him dig a hole in the sandy bank of the Xenil, and bury something

that had the appearance of a dead body.

 

The barber hied him home, and fidgeted about his shop, setting

everything upside down, until sunrise. He then took a basin under his

arm, and sallied forth to the house of his daily customer the alcalde.

 

The alcalde was just risen. Pedrillo Pedrugo seated him in a chair,

threw a napkin round his neck, put a basin of hot water under his chin,

and began to mollify his beard with his fingers.

 

“Strange doings!” said Pedrugo, who played barber and newsmonger at the

same time,--“strange doings! Robbery, and murder, and burial all in one

night!”

 

“Hey!--how!--what is that you say?” cried the alcalde.

 

“I say,” replied the barber, rubbing a piece of soap over the nose and

mouth of the dignitary, for a Spanish barber disdains to employ a

brush,--“I say that Peregil the Gallego has robbed and murdered a

Moorish Mussulman, and buried him, this blessed night. _Maldita sea la

noche_;--Accursed be the night for the same!”

 

“But how do you know all this?” demanded the alcalde.

 

“Be patient, Señor, and you shall hear all about it,” replied Pedrillo,

taking him by the nose and sliding a razor over his cheek. He then

recounted all that he had seen, going through both operations at the

same time, shaving his beard, washing his chin, and wiping him dry with

a dirty napkin, while he was robbing, murdering, and burying the Moslem.

 

Now it so happened that this alcalde was one of the most overbearing,

and at the same time most griping and corrupt curmudgeons in all

Granada. It could not be denied, however, that he set a high value upon

justice, for he sold it at its weight in gold. He presumed the case in

point to be one of murder and robbery; doubtless there must be a rich

spoil; how was it to be secured into the legitimate hands of the law?

for as to merely entrapping the delinquent--that would be feeding the

gallows; but entrapping the booty--that would be enriching the judge,

and such, according to his creed, was the great end of justice. So

thinking, he summoned to his presence his trustiest alguazil--a gaunt,

hungry-looking varlet, clad, according to the custom of his order, in

the ancient Spanish garb, a broad black beaver turned up at its sides; a

quaint ruff; a small black cloak dangling from his shoulders; rusty

black under-clothes that set off his spare wiry frame, while in his hand

he bore a slender white wand, the dreaded insignia of his office. Such

was the legal bloodhound of the ancient Spanish breed, that he put upon

the traces of the unlucky water-carrier, and such was his speed and

certainty, that he was upon the haunches of poor Peregil before he had

returned to his dwelling, and brought both him and his donkey before the

dispenser of justice.

 

The alcalde bent upon him one of the most terrific frowns. “Hark ye,

culprit!” roared he, in a voice that made the knees of the little

Gallego smite together,--“hark ye, culprit! there is no need of denying

thy guilt, everything is known to me. A gallows is the proper reward for

the crime thou hast committed, but I am merciful, and readily listen to

reason. The man that has been murdered in thy house was a Moor, an

infidel, the enemy of our faith. It was doubtless in a fit of religious

zeal that thou hast slain him. I will be indulgent, therefore; render up

the property of which thou hast robbed him, and we will hush the matter

up.”

 

The poor water-carrier called upon all the saints to witness his

innocence; alas! not one of them appeared; and if they had, the alcalde

would have disbelieved the whole calendar. The water-carrier related the

whole story of the dying Moor with the straightforward simplicity of

truth, but it was all in vain. “Wilt thou persist in saying,” demanded

the judge, “that this Moslem had neither gold nor jewels, which were the

object of thy cupidity?”

 

“As I hope to be saved, your worship,” replied the water-carrier, “he

had nothing but a small box of sandal-wood which he bequeathed to me in

reward for my services.”

 

“A box of sandal-wood! a box of sandal-wood!” exclaimed the alcalde, his

eyes sparkling at the idea of precious jewels. “And where is this box?

where have you concealed it?”

 

“An’ it please your grace,” replied the water-carrier, “it is in one of

the panniers of my mule, and heartily at the service of your worship.”

 

He had hardly spoken the words, when the keen alguazil darted off, and

reappeared in an instant with the mysterious box of sandal-wood. The

alcalde opened it with an eager and trembling hand; all pressed forward

to gaze upon the treasure it was expected to contain; when, to their

disappointment, nothing appeared within, but a parchment scroll, covered

with Arabic characters, and an end of a waxen taper.

 

When there is nothing to be gained by the conviction of a prisoner,

justice, even in Spain, is apt to be impartial. The alcalde, having

recovered from his disappointment, and found that there was really no

booty in the case, now listened dispassionately to the explanation of

the water-carrier, which was corroborated by the testimony of his wife.

Being convinced, therefore, of his innocence, he discharged him from

arrest; nay, more, he permitted him to carry off the Moor’s legacy, the

box of sandal-wood and its contents, as the well-merited reward of his

humanity; but he retained his donkey in payment of costs and charges.

 

Behold the unfortunate little Gallego reduced once more to the necessity

of being his own water-carrier, and trudging up to the well of the

Alhambra with a great earthen jar upon his shoulder.

 

As he toiled up the hill in the heat of a summer noon, his usual

good-humor forsook him. “Dog of an alcalde!” would he cry, “to rob a

poor man of the means of his subsistence, of the best friend he had in

the world!” And then at the remembrance of the beloved companion of his

labors, all the kindness of his nature would break forth. “Ah, donkey of

my heart!” would he exclaim, resting his burden on a stone, and wiping

the sweat from his brow,--“ah, donkey of my heart! I warrant me thou

thinkest of thy old master! I warrant me thou missest the

water-jars--poor beast.”

 

To add to his afflictions, his wife received him, on his return home,

with whimperings and repinings; she had clearly the vantage-ground of

him, having warned him not to commit the egregious act of hospitality

which had brought on him all these misfortunes; and, like a knowing

woman, she took every occasion to throw her superior sagacity in his

teeth. If her children lacked food, or needed a new garment, she could

answer with a sneer, “Go to your father--he is heir to King Chico of the

Alhambra: ask him to help you out of the Moor’s strong box.”

 

Was ever poor mortal so soundly punished for having done a good action?

The unlucky Peregil was grieved in flesh and spirit, but still he bore

meekly with the railings of his spouse. At length, one evening, when,

after a hot day’s toil, she taunted him in the usual manner, he lost all

patience. He did not venture to retort upon her, but his eye rested upon

the box of sandal-wood which lay on a shelf with lid half open, as if

laughing in mockery at his vexation. Seizing it up, he dashed it with

indignation to the floor. “Unlucky was the day that I ever set eyes on

thee,” he cried, “or sheltered thy master beneath my roof!”

 

As the box struck the floor, the lid flew wide open, and the parchment

scroll rolled forth.

 

Peregil sat regarding the scroll for some time in moody silence. At

length rallying his ideas, “Who knows,” thought he, “but this writing

may be of some importance, as the Moor seems to have guarded it with

such care?” Picking it up therefore, he put it in his bosom, and the

next morning, as he was crying water through the streets, he stopped at

the shop of a Moor, a native of Tangiers, who sold trinkets and

perfumery in the Zacatin, and asked him to explain the contents.

 

The Moor read the scroll attentively, then stroked his beard and smiled.

“This manuscript,” said he, “is a form of incantation for the recovery

of hidden treasure that is under the power of enchantment. It is said to

have such virtue that the strongest bolts and bars, nay the adamantine

rock itself, will yield before it!”

 

“Bah!” cried the little Gallego, “what is all that to me? I am no

enchanter, and know nothing of buried treasure.” So saying, he