gh he boldly asserted and
doubtlessly fully believed, that, left to himself, he would speedily
have defeated his cowardly opponents, he was still not altogether sorry
to be relieved from such odds by the old gentleman's timely arrival and
ingenious stratagem. This was the origin of his acquaintance with
Regato. From that night forward they visited each other, and soon
Geronimo took particular pleasure in the society of the handsome youth,
whose earnestness and vigour of mind, he said, were refreshing to
contemplate in a century when the actions of most men made them resemble
beasts and apes, rather than beings formed in the image of their
Creator. The young student, for his part, found much to interest him in
his new friend, the only person who now varied the monotony of his
solitude. He listened eagerly to Regato's discourse, as he alternately
poured out his stores of knowledge and experience, and broke into a vein
of keen and bitter sarcasm on the men, parties, and circumstances of
distracted and unhappy Spain. Federico enthusiastically loved his
country, and his proud eyes often filled with tears when the old man
placed its former greatness in striking contrast with its present
degradation. In spite of all the veerings and weathercock variations of
his political life, Regato was at heart a Liberal. He set forth in
glowing colours the evils and tyranny of Ferdinand's government,
expatiated on the barbarous executions of Riego, Torrijos, and other
martyrs to freedom's cause, and exposed the corruption and villany of
the men who retained their country in the bonds of slavery and
fanaticism; until Federico's cheeks glowed, and heart beat quick with
patriotic indignation, and he felt that he too, when the battle-hour
should strike, would joyfully draw his sword and lose his life for the
liberation of the land he loved so well. At times the student would take
down his guitar, and sing, with closed doors and windows--for
Ferdinand's spies were, a quick-eared legion--the spirit-stirring Hymn
of the Constitution, or the wild Tragala--that Spanish Marseillaise, to
whose exciting notes rivers of blood have flowed. And then old Regato
beat time with his hand, and his solitary eye gleamed like a ball of
fire, whilst he mingled his hoarse and suppressed bass with Federico's
mellow tenor.

Notwithstanding their vast difference of age and character, and although
the one was but commencing, whilst the other had nearly run, the up-hil