But little Theresa de Cepeda was of so loving and generous a nature that even the plea of an outcast and despised Morisco moved her to pity. From her earliest childhood she had delighted in helpful and generous deeds. She repeatedly gave away, so we are told, all her pocket-money in charity, and any sign of trouble or distress found her ready and anxious to extend relief. There was really a good deal of the angelic in little Theresa, and even the risk of arousing the wrath of the Inquisition, the walls of whose gloomy dungeon in Avila she had, so often looked upon with awe, could not withhold her from wishing to help this poor old man who was hunting for his lost son.
“Nay, brother,” she said to little Pedro, “it can be not so very great a crime to give food to a starving man”; and much to Pedro’s disgust, she opened the wallet and emptied their little store of provisions into the old beggar’s hand.
“And wither are ye bound, little ones?” asked this “tramp” of the long ago, as the children watched their precious dinner disappear behind his snowy beard.
“We are on a crusade, don Infidel,” replied Pedro, boldly. “A crusade against your armies and castles, perhaps to capture them, and thus gain the crown of martyrdom.”
The old Moor looked at them sadly. “There is scarce need for that, my children,” he said. “My people are but slaves; their armies and their castles are lost; their beautiful cities are ruined, and there is neither conquest nor martyrdom for Christian youths and maidens to gain among them. Go home, my little ones, and pray to Allah that you and yours may never know so much of sorrow and of trouble as do the poor Moriscoes of Spain this day.”
This was news to Theresa. No martyrdom to be obtained among the Moors? Where then was all the truth of her mother’s romances,--where was all the wisdom of her father’s savage faith? She had always supposed that the Moors were monsters and djins, waiting with great fires and racks and sharpest cimeters to put to horrible death all young Christians who came amongst them, and now here was one who begged for bread and pleaded for pity like any common beggar of Avila. Evidently something was wrong in the home stories.
As for little Pedro, he waxed more valiant as the danger lessened. He whetted his toy sword against the granite rocks and looked savagely at the old man.