penned his Ode to Saint Simeon Stylites the Less, which won a prize from the municipality of Cadrete, province of Saragossa. He had not brought any money for omber because that was the thirty-first of the month, and the viscount was won't religiously to pay his debts on that day, and remained without a copper in his pocket; while no one knew whether he was poor or rich. How was he going to inform the marchioness that he had not a cuarto about him? He talked to himself, and, as he walked to and fro, mumbling, the good curé said:
"Come, come! Drop those verses, and I'll add a coda to them of my own!"
"Wait a moment," he answered, in a very low voice, as though, all of a sudden, a luminous idea had struck him; and, walking off, he remained absent about ten minutes, returning with the countenance of a man whose mind is thoroughly at ease, and, sitting down again, he began to shuffle the cards.
"Ah!" cried Antoñito, striking up the march from Le Prophète with a grand crash and clangor. "Now I have it! A rare idea! Now I have it!"
"What is it, what is it?" eagerly questioned, the commandant and the count.
"Manuel! Manuel will give us the money!"
"Manuel? The servant?" queried the commandant.
"You are right," chimed in the count. "The old family servant, he who is so fond of us all. Why, he lent me last month ten duros, which I had lost at omber. Not having sufficient with me to make things square, I stole
