The beggarmen had waited in their places to give us another chance of
meriting heaven; and at the church door still crouched the old
beggarwoinan. I saw now that the imploring eyes she lifted were
sightless, and I could not forbear another alms, and as I put my copper
big-dog in her leathern palm I said, _"Adios, madre."_ Then happened
something that I had long desired. I had heard and read that in Spain
people always said at parting, "Go with God," but up to that moment
nobody had said it to me, though I had lingeringly given many the
opportunity. Now, at my words and at the touch of my coin this old
beggarwoman smiled beneficently and said, "Go with God," or, as she put
it in her Spanish, "_Vaya vested con Dios."_ Immediately I ought to have
pressed another coin in her palm, with a _"Gracias, madre; muchas
gracias,"_ out of regard to the literary climax; but whether I really
did so I cannot now remember; I can only hope I did.
VII
I think that it was while I was still in this high satisfaction that we
went a drive in the promenade, which in all Spanish cities is the
Alameda, except Seville, where it so deservedly is the Delicias.
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