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Updated: June 5, 2025
When the roll of the drums began again, I looked around, and saw that I was between Klipfel and Furst, all three with our knapsacks on our backs. Their parents stood before us, weeping as if at their funeral. To the right, near the town-hall, Captain Vidal, on his little gray horse, was conversing with two infantry officers. The sergeants called the roll, and we answered.
After a minute examination of the house and its surroundings, the three returned to Las Ventas. At night they felt like going back to Madrid, but Vidal suggested that they had better remain where they were, so that they could commit the robbery at dawn of the next day. This was decided upon and they lay down in a tile-kiln, in the passageway formed by two walls of heaped-up bricks.
At the end of twenty minutes we had overtaken the rear of the column, and recognized the battalion of Captain Adjutant-Major Vidal, who was marching near it. We had taken our places in the ranks before any one noticed our absence. The nearer we approached the city the more detachments, cannon and baggage we encountered hastening to Leipzig.
They reached a road tavern beside a ragpicker's hut, stopped, and Vidal ordered the bottle of wine. "What's this factory?" asked Manuel, pointing to a structure at the left of the Andalucia road on the way back to Madrid. "They make money out of blood," answered Vidal solemnly. Manuel stared at him in fright. "Yes.
Do you really see all the time though that doesn't go very far towards explaining it." "Like Vidal, I see very well at close quarters," replied Carrados, lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm. "For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test them?" Mr. Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly sulky.
I recognized the road which Zimmer and I had traversed so often in July, when the ground was covered with flowers. The enemy fired on us, but we did not reply. I entered the water first; Captain Vidal next, then the others, two abreast. It reached our shoulders, for the river was swollen by the autumn rains; but we crossed, notwithstanding, without the loss of a man.
Doesn't it say in the Bible or . . . or somewhere, that greater praise or something shall no man have than he who gives his life for a friend? It's something like that, anyway. Aren't people just horrid, always blaming other people, never stopping to consider their reasons and impulses and looking at it from their side? Vidal Nuñez was a friend of Mr. Galloway's; he was in Mr. Galloway's house.
May God send us good news of the Garde Doloureuse!" "Amen!" replied his squire; "but if Renault Vidal brings it, 'twill be the first time he has proved a bird of good omen." "Philip," said the Constable, "I have already told thee thou art a jealous-pated fool. How many times has Vidal shown his faith in doubt his address in difficulty-his courage in battle-his patience under suffering?"
Vidal would say to Manuel, at the very moment of the robbery, when El Bizco already had the stolen sheet or chemise under his coat: "If anyone happens along, don't say a word; nothing. Let them arrest him; we'll shut up tight as clams, absolutely motionless; if they ask anything, we know nothing. Right-o?" "Agreed."
The central love-poetry of Provence, the poetry of the Tenson and the Aubade, of Bernard de Ventadour and Pierre Vidal, is poetry for the few, for the elect and peculiar people of the kingdom of sentiment.
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