"Do you not know that to be hungry is one way to
be a martyr. And besides, it is, I doubt not, our just punishment
for having taken any thing to eat without letting mother know. We
must suffer and be strong, little brother."
"That's just like a girl," cried Pedro, a trifle scornfully. "How
can we be strong if we suffer? I can't, I know."
But before Theresa could enter upon an explanation of this most
difficult problem--one that has troubled many older heads than
little Pedro's,--both the children started in surprise, and then
involuntarily shrunk closer to the dark gray rock in whose shadow
they were resting. For there, not a hundred yards distant, coming
around a turn in the road, was one of the very Infidels they had
come out to meet and conquer, or be martyred by.
He was a rather imposing-looking but not a formidable old man.
His cloak or mantle of brown stuff was worn and ragged, his
turban was quite as dingy, but the long white beard that fell
upon his breast made his swarthy face look even fiercer than it
really was, and the stout staff, with which he helped himself
over the uneven road, seemed to the little crusaders some
terrible weapon of torture and of martyrdom.
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