The wind-driven rain reached them and snuffed the piece of candle burning dimly on the large round stone that was used to furnish the thunder on Good Friday by being rolled around the gallery.
"Pull on the rope, Crispin, pull!" cried the elder to his little brother, who did as he was told, so that from above was heard a faint peal, instantly drowned out by the reechoing thunder.
"Oh, if we were only at home now with mother," sighed the younger, as he gazed at his brother.

"There I shouldn't be afraid." The elder did not answer; he was watching the melting wax of the candle, apparently lost in thought.
"There no one would say that I stole," went on Crispin.

"Mother wouldn't allow it.

If she knew that they whip me--" The elder took his gaze from the flame, raised his head, and clutching the thick rope pulled violently on it so that a sonorous peal of the bells was heard.
"Are we always going to live this way, brother ?" continued Crispin.

"I'd like to get sick at home tomorrow, I'd like to fall into a long sickness so that mother might take care of me and not let me come back to the convento.