play the cornet. I was a crack player, as you say. But it is also a fact that about twelve years ago I gave my cornet to a beggar, and have never blown a note since."
"Bravo! Here's the cornet! Now you must play."
"I am very sorry, dear children, but I really cannot play."
"Oh, yes, you will! You are so good-natured!"
"Won't you play to please me, grandfather?"
"And me, uncle?"
"Good gracious, children, do not tease me so! I have told you that I do not play."
"But why?"
"Because I made a vow that I would not play. I made a vow to myself, to one who is now dead, and to your poor mother, my daughter!"
At these words all faces became sorrowful.
"Ah!" sighed the old man, "if you knew what it cost me to learn the cornet!"
"Tell us the story!" cried the younger ones in chorus.
"Well, there is a story attached to it," said Don Basilio, "so I will tell it."
And, seating himself under a tree, the old man related, to the swarm of young people who surrounded him, how he had learned to play the cornet:—
"It is some years now since the Civil War broke out in Spain. I had friend, a lieutenant in the same battalion as I, the most accomplished man I ever knew. We had been educated together, left college together, and fought side by side in many a fight. We were both willing to die in the cause of freedom—he was, if possible, more enthusiastic than I!
"But what happened? A superior officer was guilty of an act of injustice towards my friend Ramon—one of those cases of abuse of authority which spoil the most honourable careers—in short, an arbitrary act so offended the lieutenant as to cause him to leave the army, to separate from me, his friend, and go over to the opposite party. He said he would kill the officer, for he was very high-spirited, and would not take an insult from anybody. Nothing that I could say was of use. We were at that time in Asturia, about three leagues from the enemy. Ramon was to desert that night. It was cold and rainy, dark and dismal, that night before the battle.
"It was about midnight when Ramon entered my tent and aroused me. 'Basilio!' he whispered in my ear.
"'Who is that?"
"'It is I. Good bye!'
"'What! are you going already?'
"'Yes. Good-bye!' And he grasped my hand. 'Listen,' he continued. Should we have a battle to-morrow, which seems probable, and meet on the field———'
"'I know; we are friends.'
"'Good; we salute each other and go on fighting. It is probable that I shall die to-morrow, for I am resolved not to leave the field until I have killed the Colonel. As for yourself, do not be too rash; fame is only a shadow.'
"'So is life.'
"'You are right. Well, may you become a general!' exclaimed Ramon; the pay is certainly not shadowy. Alas! all that is finished for me!'
"'Good gracious, what an idea!' I cried, with assumed confidence. 'You see if we do not both survive the battle to-morrow.'
"'Suppose we make an appointment?'
"'Where, and at what time?'
"'At the San Nicholas Asylum, at one o'clock at night. If either of us does not appear, he has fallen. Is that agreed?'
"'Right! Now, farewell!'
"'Farewell!'
"We embraced one another tenderly, and Ramon vanished in the shadows of night.
"As we feared—or, rather, as we hoped—the insurgents attacked us on the following day. The fight was a fierce one, and lasted from three o'clock in the afternoon till nightfall. I saw Ramon once; he was wearing the Carlist cap. He had already become commandant, and had killed our colonel. I was not so fortunate; the insurgents took me prisoner.
One o'clock at night—the hour of my appointment with Ramon! I was confined in a cell in the prison of a small town occupied by the Carlists.
"I asked after Ramon and the reply was: 'Ah! he is a brave fellow. He killed a colonel. But he is dead, no doubt.'
"'What! dead?'
"'Yes; he has not been seen since the battle.'
"I leave you to guess what I went through that night. One gleam of hope remained that Ramon was waiting for me in the Asylum of San Nicolas, and this was the reason he had not returned to the insurgent camp. 'How great will be his grief,'
