"The one I took. The whole business looked so hopeless that it would have ended by your being forbidden the house, and I should have been packed off to Tejada in disgrace. All entreaties, all arguments were in vain; she was mad with rage, she called you an infamous traitor, you can imagine how she spoke of me! Then I saw that there was nothing for it but to take a strong measure; and it was somewhat strong," she added in a low, changed voice.

"What strong measure?" asked Gonzalo with curiosity.

Venturita was silent for some moments, and then somewhat shamefacedly returned:

"I told her--I told her that there was nothing else for us but to marry each other."

"Why?"

"Why--why--guess why!" said the girl with impatience.

Then Gonzalo divined what she meant, and the knowledge filled him with repugnance and terror. A gloomy silence fell upon him, and Venturita at last said:

"Do you think it was wrong?"

"Yes," he returned dryly.

"All right, my boy; to-morrow I will tell her it was all a lie, and then all is over between us."

"That won't do any good. I do not quarrel with the result, as you must know, but with the way you have managed it."

"I lose more than you."

"Well, I feel it all the same."

"All right, then show it," she returned in a pet, jumping up from the window-sill, where she had been seated.

But Gonzalo put his hand through the bars, and caught her by the dress.

"Stop."

The dress tore.

"Now you have torn my frock, do you see?"

"Well, don't go so quickly."

And succeeding in catching her by the arm, he obliged her to sit down again.

"What rough manners!" exclaimed the girl, laughing; "that must be the way bears make love."

"Do you love me?" asked Gonzalo, also laughing.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Give me your hand as a friend."

The girl then gave him her pink and white hand, and the herculean youth kissed it pa.s.sionately several times.

"Good-by till to-morrow, and I will tell you all the news," she said, once more rising from her seat.

Gonzalo withdrew, and after taking a few steps he recollected that the news signified the way in which Cecilia would take his disloyal conduct, and his forehead corrugated with an expression of pain. In this state of preoccupation he crossed the Rua Nueva, entered the Plaza de la Marina, went along by the harbor, and reached the end of the mole. The night was mild and clear. The stars shining in the firmament were reflected in the tranquil waters of the bay. The rigging of the anch.o.r.ed shipping stood out distinctly from the dark blue background. The hour for the extinction of lights had not yet struck, and one could see several lights and figures on the ships; the sailors reclining on the upper decks were chatting before retiring to rest.

Occasionally a glance would be cast at a great English steamer anch.o.r.ed in the middle of the harbor, and a sailor would call out, with an exaggeration of the p.r.o.nunciation:

"_All right_," and a schooner would echo the words, "_All right_" and the cry would be taken up by all the tenders, schooners, and fishing smacks. It was a joke upon the English anch.o.r.ed there. But it was received with silence; the great steamer treated it with the phlegmatic, profound contempt that n.o.body can a.s.sume better than a son of Albion.

The end of the mole was the resort of anybody who wished to enjoy the fresh air. It was one of the hottest nights of August. Gonzalo, overwhelmed by the heat and the difficulty of his position, walked along with his hat in his hand. Before he reached the end of the mole he caught sight of a gigantic figure on the second stage.

"I say, uncle," he cried.

The old sailor spent the greater part of his life on that mole in intimate communion with the sea, his old friend and companion. The terrible ocean was an open book to him, either sleeping in its immense bed of sand or awakening and lashing the sky furiously with its foam. He could accurately forecast its rages, its storms, its smiles, and its profoundest working. To him the monster seemed to reveal its liquid heart as to a faithful friend, and told him how it fretted in its granite prison, and how the sight of human wickedness sometimes made it long to rush over the land and submerge this fulsome human ant-hill. And the good man, thinking of all the crimes about which he had read, would reply:

"You are right, friend; in your place it is probable I should feel the same."

Nothing in the world would have induced Don Melchor to forego his morning, afternoon, and evening walks at the end of the mole. During his wife's lifetime, when he was under surveillance, he had to his great vexation been obliged to give up the later walks. But now unfortunately, as he had no one to look after him and keep him in hand, he did as he liked.

Nothing came up to the sea air cure for catarrh. When occasionally he had a pain in his inside, he drank a couple of gla.s.ses of salt water and he was all right. There is no better or simpler medicine than sea water.

Once he had a bad leg: two ulcers corroded the flesh down to the bone; and the doctors not only gave the leg up for lost, but despaired of his life. In desperation he had himself carried down to the beach and bathed. After nine baths the ulcers were cured. One can imagine what he thought of the curative efficacy of the sea after that!

On the other hand, he had a great objection to rivers. The air of a river made him hoa.r.s.e, the fogs suffocated him, and gave him asthma. The "shut-in" feeling of the air filled him with aversion and unspeakable dislike. Don Melchor slept little; he rose before sunrise; and directly he got up he ascended to his observatory, and examined the sky and the sea; and after drawing out in his head a meteorological map of the coming day, he went down to the end of the mole to corroborate his observations; ascertained whether the wind was pa.s.sing, or settled, if it were positively north, or inclined to the east or west, if the weather were going to be good or bad, if the sea would be stormy or calm, how long the weather would remain as it was; to what quarter the wind would veer at mid-day; if the sea would then be calm or rough, etc., etc.

He could not take his chocolate until he had made all these observations.

And really, however this may look like a mania, I think it is less silly than rising from one's bed to notice if one's neighbor's face is clean or dirty, cheerful or sad, if he eats or if he fasts, if he sleeps or if he wakes, if he be idle or industrious, how long he remains at home, and what road he takes when he goes out. Gonzalo mounted the upper wall with an irresistible desire to unburden his heart and tell his uncle what had happened, for although his character was little adapted for love confidences, the occasion was important and critical. Don Melchor, who walked a little bent under the weight of years, straightened himself at the sight of a man approaching, for he was anxious to hide all signs of weakness from the world, and he liked to be thought a stalwart fellow.

"Is that you, Gonzalo?"

"It is I, uncle."

"That is a wonder! For you like seeing billiard b.a.l.l.s roll better than waves."

"No; I have not played billiards to-day. But I am worried and upset, and I want to speak to you about an important matter; in fact I want your advice."

Don Melchor looked at him in surprise.

"An important matter?"

"Yes--look here, uncle; would you marry a woman you did not love?"

"What a question! Matrimony at my age is a thing of the past, my boy."

"But if you were young, would you marry like that?"