“The thistle’s downy seed his fare,
    His drink the morning dew.”

He throve but indifferently upon this meagre regimen, but beyond all other evils a true Spaniard of the poorer sort dreads obesity.  During the darkest night of the season he will get up at an absurd hour and stab his best friend in the back rather than grow fat.

It will of course be suspected by the experienced reader that Don Hemstitch did not have any bed.  Like the Horatian lines above quoted—­

  “He perched at will on every spray.”

In translating this tale into the French, M. Victor Hugo will please twig the proper meaning of the word “spray”; I shall be very angry if he make it appear that my hero is a gull.

One morning while Don Hemstitch was dozing upon his leafy couch—­not his main couch, but a branch—­he was roused from his tranquil nap by the grunting of swine; or, if you like subtle distinctions, by the sound of human voices.  Peering cautiously through his bed-hangings, he saw below him at a little distance two of his countrymen in conversation.  The fine practised phrenzy of their looks, their excellently rehearsed air of apprehensive secrecy, showed him they were merely conspiring against somebody’s life; and he dismissed the matter from his mind until the mention of his own name recalled his attention.  One of the conspirators was urging the other to make one of a joint-stock company for the Don’s assassination; but the more conscientious plotter would not consent.

“The laws of Spain,” said the latter, “with which we have an acquaintance meanly withheld from the attorneys, enjoin that when one man murders another, except for debt, he must make provision for the widow and orphans.  I leave it to you if, after the summer’s unprofitable business, we are in a position to assume the care and education of a large family.  We have not a single asset, and our liabilities amount to fourteen widows, and more than thirty children of strong and increasing appetite.

“Car-r-rajo!" hissed the other through his beard; “we will slaughter the lot of them!”

At this cold-blooded proposition his merciful companion recoiled aghast.

“Diablo!” he shrieked.  “Tempt me no farther.  What! immolate a whole hecatomb of guiltless women and children?  Consider the funeral expense!”

There is really no moving the law-abiding soul to crime of doubtful profit.  But Don Hemstitch was not at ease; he could not say how soon it might transpire that he had nor chick nor child.  Should Don Symposio pass that way and communicate this information—­and he was in a position to know—­the moral scruples of the conscientious plotter would vanish like the baseless fabric of a beaten cur.  Moreover, it is always unpleasant to be included in a conspiracy in which one is not a conspirator.  Don Hemstitch resolved to sell his life at the highest market price.