Salía del hospital de la Resurrección, que está en Valladolid fuera de la puerta del Campo, un soldado que por servirle su espada de báculo y por la flaqueza de sus piernas y amarillez de su rostro mostra ba bien claro que aunque no era el tiempo muy caluroso debía de haber sudado en veinte días todo el humor que quizá granjeó en una hora. Iba haciendo pinitos y dando traspiés como convaleciente, y al entrar por la puerta de la ciudad vio que hacia él venía un su amigo a quien no había visto en más de seis meses, el cual, santiguándose como si viera alguna mala visión, lle gándose a él le dijo…
From the Hospital of the Resurrection, which stands just beyond the Puerta del Campo, in Valladolid, there issued one day a soldier, who, by the excessive paleness of his countenance, and the weakness of his limbs, which obliged him to, lean upon his sword, showed clearly to all who set eyes on him that, though the weather was not very warm, he must have sweated a good deal in the last few weeks. He had scarcely entered the gate of the city, with tottering steps, when he was accosted by an old friend who had not seen him for the last six months, and who approached the invalid, making signs of the cross as if he had seen a ghost. “What; is all this?” he cried; “do I, indeed, behold the Señor Alferez Campuzano? Is it possible that I really see you in this country? Why, I thought you were in Flanders trailing a pike, instead of hobbling along with your sword for a walking-stick. How pale—how emaciated you look!”
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