“Yes, senor, that there are,” answered the latter.

“I have a blind faith in the triumph of the law of God.  Some one must stand up in defence of it.  If not one, it will be another.  The palm of victory, and with it eternal glory, some one must bear.  The wicked will perish, if not to-day, to-morrow.  That which goes against the law of God will fall irremediably.  Let it be in this manner or in that, fall it must.  Neither its sophistries, nor its evasions, nor its artifices will save it.  The hand of God is raised against it and will infallibly strike it.  Let us pity them and desire their repentance.  As for you, my children, do not expect that I shall say a word to you about the step which you are no doubt going to take.  I know that you are good; I know that your generous determination and the noble end which you have in view will wash away from you all the stain of the sin of shedding blood.  I know that God will bless you; that your victory, the same as your death, will exalt you in the eyes of men and in the eyes of God.  I know that you deserve palms and glory and all sorts of honors; but in spite of this, my children, my lips will not incite you to the combat.  They have never done it, and they will not do it now.  Act according to the impulse of your own noble hearts.  If they bid you to remain in your houses, remain in them; if they bid you to leave them—­why, then, leave them.  I will resign myself to be a martyr and to bow my neck to the executioner, if that vile army remains here.  But if a noble and ardent and pious impulse of the sons of Orbajosa contributes to the great work of the extirpation of our country’s ills, I shall hold myself the happiest of men, solely in being your fellow-townsman; and all my life of study, of penitence, of resignation, will seem to me less meritorious, less deserving of heaven, than a single one of your heroic days.”

“Impossible to say more or to say it better!” exclaimed Dona Perfecta, in a burst of enthusiasm.

Caballuco had leaned forward in his chair and was resting his elbows on his knees; when the canon ended he took his hand and kissed it with fervor.

“A better man was never born,” said Uncle Licurgo, wiping, or pretending to wipe away a tear.

“Long life to the Senor Penitentiary!” cried Frasquito Gonzalez, rising to his feet and throwing his cap up to the ceiling.

“Silence!” said Dona Perfecta.  “Sit down, Frasquito!  You are one of those with whom it is always much cry and little wool.”

“Blessed be God who gave you that eloquent tongue!” exclaimed Cristobal, inflamed with admiration.  “What a pair I have before me!  While these two live what need is there of any one else?  All the people in Spain ought to be like them.  But how could that be, when there is nothing in it but roguery!  In Madrid, which is the capital where the law and the mandarins come from, every thing is robbery and cheating.  Poor religion, what a state they have brought it to!  There is nothing to be seen but crimes.  Senor Don Inocencio, Senora Dona Perfecta, by my father’s soul, by the soul of my grandfather, by the salvation of my own soul, I swear that I wish to die!”