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Show 112 BY PATH AND TBAIL. was recovering. It is said that this ice cold breath of hers, freezes into death who ever feels it. Then after the person falls dead, she rushes onward again, shriek ing for her lost ones, but the one who speaks to her is found the next morning dead, and on his face and in his wide open eyes there is a look of awful horror. Did I ever meet her? God forbid, but I heard her shrieks and wailings and the patter of her feet, as she ran, on the cobblestones of the Calle de San Esteban." As we drew near to the inland village where I in tended to put up for the night the country bore all the appearance of having lately been swept by a tornado of wind and rain. A swirling mass of water must have rioted over the lowlands, for rocks, trees and bowlders lay everywhere in confusion and encumbered the roads. Many of the fruit trees were uprooted, houses unroofed and outbuildings dismantled. Sure enough when we en tered the town it bore all the marks of cyclonic wrath. With difficulty we obtained accommodations for the night. When I strolled out early next morning to take a look at the town and the damage done by the storm, the entire population apparently, men, women and children were gathered around their church which had been blown down by the cyclone. Some were chipping stones, some carrying lime, some mixing mortar, some pulling down the . shaken walls, some splitting shingles for the roof, some strengthening the sprung beams. Everybody was busy about the church and, seemingly, not one was en gaged about any of the houses. A sudden shower drove me into a protected part of the building for shelter, and I got into conversation with a man who turned out to be the priest, but not being quite as good a bricklayer as he was a theologian, he was then serving as hodman to |
