The poor man declared himself satisfied, loaded his arms with the things; and, if you will believe me, as he was crossing the plaza, some soldiers of the civil guard were bringing in the highwaymen that had robbed him. Immediately, the judge, who was one of the judges God sends, made them restore the two thousand reals without costs or waste. The poor man, in partnership with a neighbor of his, put his money in a mine. Before they had dug down six feet they struck a vein of gold, another of lead, and another of iron. Right away people began to call him Don, then "You Sir," then Your Excellency. Since that time Doña Fortuna has had her husband humbled and shut up in her shoe, and she, more addle-pated and indiscriminating than ever, goes on distributing her favors without rhyme or reason, without judgment or discretion--madly, foolishly, generously, hit or miss, like the blows of the blind stick; and one of them will reach the writer, if the reader is pleased with the tale. FOOTNOTES: [16] Madame Fortune and Sir Money. [17] The Bank of Madrid. [18] Less than a farthing. [19] A gold piece valued at sixteen dollars. [20] Was becoming angry. ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. My brothers, ye are sad, and my sisters, ye are poor, But once was holy poverty the cloak that angels wore; My fathers, ye are lame, and my children, pale ye be, But in every face, by his dear grace, that blessed Lord I see Who brother is and father is, and all things, unto me. In the sigh of sick men's prayers, in the woeful leper's eye, In the pangs of wicked men, in the groans of them that die, Thy voice I hear, thine eye I see, thy thought doth hedge me in. Oh! may thy sinner bear thy stripes for them that toil in sin, And with thy ransomed suffering ones find me my choicest kin. For, whether down to pious rest on these bare stones I lie, Or if at last upon thy cross triumphantly I die, The joy of thee, the praise of thee, is more than all reward; For holy misery doth most with heavenly bliss accord: All ways are sweet, all wounds are dear, to them that seek the Lord. I made a harp to praise the Lord with ever-glorious strain; I tuned a harp to praise my God, and all its strings were pain: Its song was like to fire, but sweet its keenest agony, And thus in every tune and tear its burden seemed to be, "So great is the joy that I expect, all pain is joy to me." Through all the weary world do I an exiled orphan roam, Yet for thy sake were desert cave a palace and a home; And birds, and flowers, and stars are lights to read thy Scripture by, And earth is but a comment rude unto thy wondrous sky, The which to reach, my soul must teach earth's body how to die.