GENERAL SANTIERRA was right in his surmise¹. Such was the exact nature of the assistance which Gaspar Ruiz, peasant son of peasants, received from the Royalist family whose daughter had opened the door—of their miserable² refuge to his extreme distress³. Her sombre resolution ruled the madness of her father and the trembling bewilderment of her mother.  
She had asked the strange man on the door-step, “Who wounded you?”
 
“The soldiers, senora,” Gaspar Ruiz had answered, in a faint voice.
 
“Patriots?”
 
“Si.”
 
“What for?”
 
“Deserter,” he gasped⁵, leaning against the wall under the scrutiny⁶ of her black eyes. “I was left for dead over there.”
 
She led him through the house out to a small hut of clay and reeds, lost in the long grass of the overgrown orchard⁷. He sank on a heap of maize⁸ straw in a corner, and sighed profoundly.
 
“No one will look for you here,” she said, looking down at him. “Nobody comes near us. We too have been left for dead—here.”
 
He stirred uneasily on his heap of dirty straw, and the pain in his neck made him groan⁹ deliriously¹⁰.
 
“I shall show Estaban some day that I am alive yet,” he mumbled¹¹.
 
He accepted her assistance in silence, and the many days of pain went by. Her appearances in the hut brought him relief and became connected with the feverish¹² dreams of angels which visited his couch; for Gaspar Ruiz was instructed in the mysteries of his religion, and had even been taught to read and write a little by the priest of his village. He waited for her with impatience¹³, and saw her pass out of the dark hut and disappear in the brilliant sunshine with poignant¹⁴ regret. He discovered that, while he lay there feeling so very weak, he could, by closing his eyes, evoke¹⁵ her face with considerable distinctness. And this discovered faculty¹⁶ charmed the long solitary¹⁷ hours of his convalescence¹⁸. Later, when he began to regain¹⁹ his strength, he would creep at dusk from his hut to the house and sit on the step of the garden door.
 
In one of the rooms the mad father paced to and fro, muttering to himself with short abrupt²⁰ laughs. In the passage, sitting on a stool, the mother sighed and moaned. The daughter, in rough threadbare clothing, and her white haggard face half hidden by a coarse manta, stood leaning against the lintel of the door. Gaspar Ruiz, with his elbows propped²¹ on his knees and his head resting in his hands, talked to the two women in an undertone.
 
The common misery²² of destitution²³ would have made a bitter mockery of a marked insistence²⁴ on social differences. Gaspar Ruiz understood this in his simplicity²⁵. From his captivity²⁶ amongst the Royalists he could give them news of people they knew. He described their appearance; and when he related the story of the battle in which he was recaptured the two women lamented²⁷ the blow to their cause and the ruin of their secret hopes.
 
He had no feeling either way. But he felt a great devotion for that young girl. In his desire to appear worthy²⁸ of her condescension²⁹, he boasted a little of his bodily strength. He had nothing else to boast of. Because of that quality his comrades treated him with as great a deference³⁰, he explained, as though he had been a sergeant³¹, both in camp and in battle.
 
“I could always get as many as I wanted to follow me anywhere, senorita. I ought to have been made an officer, because I can read and write.”
 
Behind him the silent old lady fetched a moaning sigh from time to time; the distracted father muttered to himself, pacing the sala; and Gaspar Ruiz would raise his eyes now and then to look at the daughter of these people.
 
He would look at her with curiosity because she was alive, and also with that feeling of familiarity and awe³² with which he had contemplated³³ in churches the inanimate and powerful statues of the saints, whose protection is invoked³⁴ in dangers and difficulties. His difficulty was very great.
 
He could not remain hiding in an orchard for ever and ever. He knew also very well that before he had gone half a day’s journey in any direction, he would be picked up by one of the cavalry³⁵ patrols scouring³⁶ the country, and brought into one or another of the camps where the patriot⁴ army destined³⁷ for the liberation of Peru was collected. There he would in the end be recognised as Gaspar Ruiz—the deserter to the Royalists—and no doubt shot very effectually this time. There did not seem any place in the world for the innocent Gaspar Ruiz anywhere. And at this thought his simple soul surrendered itself to gloom and resentment³⁸ as black as night.
 
They had made him a soldier forcibly. He did not mind being a soldier. And he had been a good soldier as he had been a good son, because of his docility³⁹ and his strength. But now there was no use for either. They had taken him from his parents, and he could no longer be a soldier—not a good soldier at any rate. Nobody would listen to his explanations. What injustice⁴⁰ it was! What injustice!
 
And in a mournful murmur⁴¹ he would go over the story of his capture and recapture for the twentieth time. Then, raising his eyes to the silent girl in the doorway⁴², “Si, senorita,” he would say with a deep sigh, “injustice has made this poor breath in my body quite worthless to me and to anybody else. And I do not care who robs me of it.”
 
One evening, as he exhaled⁴³ thus the plaint of his wounded soul, she condescended⁴⁴ to say that, if she were a man, she would consider no life worthless which held the possibility of revenge.
 
She seemed to be speaking to herself. Her voice was low. He drank in the gentle, as if dreamy sound, with a consciousness of peculiar⁴⁵ delight, of something warming his breast like a draught⁴⁶ of generous wine.
 
“True, senorita,” he said, raising his face up to hers slowly: “there is Estaban, who must be shown that I am not dead after all.”
 
The mutterings of the mad father had ceased long before; the sighing mother had withdrawn⁴⁷ somewhere into one of the empty rooms. All was still within as well as without, in the moonlight bright as day on the wild orchard full of inky shadows. Gaspar Ruiz saw the dark eyes of Doña Erminia look down at him.
 
“Ala! The sergeant,” she muttered disdainfully.
 
“Why! He has wounded me with his sword,” he protested, bewildered by the contempt that seemed to shine livid on her pale face.
 
She crushed him with her glance. The power of her will to be understood was so strong that it kindled⁴⁸ in him the intelligence of unexpressed things.
 
“What else did you expect me to do?” he cried, as if suddenly driven to despair. “Have I the power to do more? Am I a general with an army at my back?—miserable sinner that I am to be despised by you at last.”