ese interrupted sights of the place where my life had
been so strangely changed, suited the indecision of my humour. I passed
whole days there, debating with myself the various elements of our
position; now leaning to the suggestions of love, now giving an ear to
prudence, and in the end halting irresolute between the two.

One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came by that way a somewhat
gaunt peasant wrapped in a mantle. He was a stranger, and plainly did
not know me even by repute; for, instead of keeping the other side, he
drew near and sat down beside me, and we had soon fallen in talk. Among
other things he told me he had been a muleteer, and in former years had
much frequented these mountains; later on, he had followed the army with
his mules, had realised a competence, and was now living retired with his
family.

'Do you know that house?' I inquired, at last, pointing to the
residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that kept me from the
thought of Olalla.

He looked at me darkly and crossed himself.

'Too well,' he said, 'it was there that one of my comrades sold himself
to Satan; the Virgin shield us from temptations! He has paid the price;
he is now burning in the reddest place in Hell!'

A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and presently the man
resumed, as if to himself: 'Yes,' he said, 'O yes, I know it. I have
passed its doors. There was snow upon the pass, the wind was driving it;
sure enough there was death that night upon the mountains, but there was
worse beside the hearth. I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged him
to the gate; I conjured him, by all he loved and respected, to go forth
with me; I went on my knees before him in the snow; and I could see he
was moved by my entreaty. And just then she came out on the gallery, and
called him by his name; and he turned, and there was she standing with a
lamp in her hand and smiling on him to come back. I cried out aloud to
God, and threw my arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone. He
had made his choice; God help us. I would pray for him, but to what end?
there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.'

'And your friend,' I asked, 'what became of him?'

'Nay, God knows,' said the muleteer. 'If all be true that we hear, his
end was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.'

'Do you mean that he was killed?' I asked.

'Sure enough, he was killed,' returned the man. 'But how? Ay, how? But
these are