“That is exactly what I think,” said Cortado; “but as your reverence knows there is a remedy for all things but death, now I should advise your reverence to avail yourself of the first and principal, which is patience, for it is recommended by God. One day follows another; and he that gives takes away; so in like manner the time may arrive, that he who has stolen your purse may repent and restore it, even in better condition than he found it.”

“That I will excuse,” interrupted the student.

“For my part,” continued Cortado, “I would not be the stealer of the purse for a trifle, for as your reverence is in sacred orders, it is neither more nor less than sacrilege.”

“You say right,” said the afflicted student, “for though I am no priest, but only the sacristan of a convent, the money I have lost is the third of a chaplain’s salary, which is left in my charge, and therefore it is blessed and holy coin.”

“As you have made your bread so must you eat it,” said Cortado, in a condoling manner; “but the day of judgment will arrive, and then we shall see the rogue who was hardened enough to steal the chaplain’s salary. And pray what might the situation of your friend be worth per annum, with regard to salary, Señor Sacristan?” asked Cortado, innocently.

“Salary of the devil,” returned the sacristan, incensed beyond measure at what appeared to be trifling with him. “Is this a time to talk about salary? Tell me, my friend, do you know anything of the purse? if so, say; if not, God be with you; for I must go and have it cried.”

“That is the best thing you can do,” said Cortado, “and remember,” he added, calling after him, “that you are very particular about the description of the purse, and the exact sum contained therein, for if you make the mistake of a single farthing, you will never see your purse again in this world; I only say this, sir, by way of advice.”

“There is no fear of that, my friend,” returned the sacristan. “I have it so truly in my memory that I shall not mistake a single thread.” Saying this, he drew from his pocket a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his countenance; a movement not lost on Cortado, who immediately seemed to take a more vivid interest in the poor man’s loss, and suggested several expedients for its recovery. The advice of Cortado was given in so vague a manner, that the sacristan was tempted to ask a repetition; during which, Cortado, taking advantage of the sacristan’s anxiety, contrived to beguile him of his handkerchief, when, with many expressions of condolence, he took his leave, recommending him to use all diligence in the recovery of his property; and then returned to Rincon.

“What have you been so busy about with the student?” inquired his companion.

“Why, I have been listening to the poor gentleman’s distress, which I protest has so affected me, that I was under the necessity of borrowing his handkerchief,” replied the young wag, at the same time producing it, and applying it to his eyes.

The two young rogues then indulged in some merriment at the expense of the poor sacristan; but Cortado had not effected the latter transfer so secretly as to escape the observation of a lad who had been watching him. “Pray, gentlemen,” said he, advancing towards them, “may I ask of what profession you call yourselves?” “We don’t understand you, sir,” replied Rincon. “I ask you, gentlemen, whether you are from Murcia,” repeated the youth. “Neither from Murcia nor from Thebes,” responded Cortado, “and if you have nothing further to say, I wish you a good morning.”

“You don’t choose to understand me, eh! my masters?“ said the querist, “but I think I could soon make you understand—aye, and teach you to eat pap out of a spoon. What I wish to ask of you, gentlemen, is merely whether your honors are thieves, or no? although it is a useless question, because I already