THE marriage of Stein and the Gaviota was celebrated in the church of Villamar. The fisherman, instead of a red flannel shirt, wore a white shirt, irreproachably starched, and a vest of dark blue cloth. In this gala costume he was so embarrassed that he could hardly move.

Don Modesto, one of the witnesses, presented himself in all the Éclat of his old uniform, rendered threadbare by constant brushing, and become too large by reason of his having grown so thin. The nankeen pantaloons which Rosita had washed for the thousandth time, had shrunken so as to descend only half way down his legs. His epaulets had become copper-colored. The cocked hat, which had survived eight lustres, and had not altered its pride, occupied dignifiedly its elevated position. But in the mean time there sparkled on the honorable breast of the poor soldier the cross of honor, valiantly gained on the field of battle, as shines a pure diamond in a fine setting. The women, according to custom, assisted, all dressed in black during the ceremony, but they changed their toilets for the fÊte.

Marisalada was all in white. The dresses which Maria and Dolores had received as presents from Stein on the occasion, were made of wove cotton smuggled into Gibraltar. The design was called scarfs of iris, because of the assemblage of colors the most opposite and the least harmonizing. One would believe the manufacturer wished to mock his Andalusian customers. In fine, everybody thought them handsome, except Momo, who would not put himself out on this occasion, and dressed himself to look as eccentric as possible.

“This is well for you, bad droll fellow. ‘The ape, though dressed in silk, is nothing but an ape.’”

“You cut a figure! You, who to be the wife of the doctor have ceased to be the Gaviota, and dress yourself in new clothes to render yourself handsomer! Oh! yes—white becomes you so well! Put a red cap on your head, and you will resemble a phosphoric match.”

Then he began to sing in a false voice—

Marisalada immediately replied—

After this compliment she turned her back on him.

Momo, who was never behindhand when he meditated insolence and sallies, replied bravely—

“Go—go; when they give thee the benediction, it will be the first time thou hast received it during thine whole life, and I predict that it will be the last.”

The marriage was held in the village, at the house of Maria, the cabin of the fisherman being too small to contain all the assembly. Stein, who, in the exercise of his profession, had saved some money, although in most cases he gave his services gratuitously, desired to do the thing in grand style, and not to restrict the invitations. He had abundance of wine, lemonade, biscuits, and cakes, and three guitars. The guests sang, danced, screamed, without omitting wit and pleasantry, joyous and gay.

Maria came and went, served the refreshments, played the part of godmother of the wedding, and never ceased to repeat, “I am as content as if I were the bride;” to which brother Gabriel invariably added, “I am as content as if I were the husband.”

“Mother,” said Manuel to Maria, on seeing her pass near him, “the color of this dress is very gay for a widow.”

“Hold your tongue,” replied the mother. “Every thing ought to be gay on a day like this. Besides, ‘we must not look a gift horse in the mouth.’ Brother Gabriel, come along, take this glass of lemonade and this cake, and drink to the health of the newly married couple, before returning to the convent.”

“I drink to the health of the new-married couple before I return to the convent,” said brother Gabriel.

The good monk emptied his glass, and escaped before any one, except Maria, remarked his absence.

The reunion became animated by degrees.

“Bomba!” cried the sacristan, a little humpbacked man, crooked and lame, “Bomba!” (This is the exclamation which announces ordinarily in Spain at a dinner or at fÊte, a little excited, that a guest is about to propose a toast.)

Every one was silent at this signal.

“I drink,” said the sacristan, “to the health of the bride and groom, and to this honorable company, and to the repose of all Christian souls!”

“Bravo! let us drink! and long live La Mancha! who gives us wine in lieu of water.”

“In your turn, Ramon Perez, sing a couplet, and do not keep your voice for a better occasion.”

Ramon sang—

“Bravo! well sung!” cried all the assembly. “Now the fandango and the ball!”

After the prelude to this eminently national dance, a man and a woman rose simultaneously, and placed themselves face to face. Their graceful movements accomplished, so to speak, an elegant balancing of bodies, to the sound of their gay castinets.

In an instant the two dancers yielded their places to two others, who placed themselves in front, while the first couple retired. This divertisement, according to the usages of the country, was often repeated.

The guitarist had again his song—

“Bomba!” soon cried one of the most expert in matters of toasts. “I drink to this excellent doctor, whom God sent to our country that we might attain a greater age than Methuselah! But I add one condition, that in case of longevity to me, he will not prolong either the life of my wife, or my purgatory.”

This toast provoked an explosion of applause.

“What do you say to all this?” demanded all the guests at the wedding of Manuel.

“What do I say? That I say nothing.”

“Badly answered! Get along—wake up, and propose a toast.”

Manuel took a glass of lemonade, and said—

“I drink to the newly married, to our friends, to our commandant, and to the resurrection of Fort St. Cristobal!”

“Long live the commandant!” cried all present. “And you, Manuel, who know how to compose couplets, sing something.”

Manuel sang the following couplet:

After some other couplets had been sung, the greatest orator of the assembly said to Manuel:

“These people only sing trifles without head or tail. You who know how to say good things, above all when the wine gets a little in your head, make a stanza of ten lines in honor of the newly married, and take this glass of wine to loosen your tongue.”

Manuel took the glass of wine, and commenced:

“It is your turn, Ramon the devil. Has the liquor obstructed your throat? You are more insipid than a salad of tomatoes.”

Ramon took his guitar and sang:

This couplet having been followed by another of little value, Maria approached Stein and said to him:

“Don Frederico, the wine commences to tell on our guests. It is midnight, and the poor children are alone in the house with Momo and brother Gabriel. I fear Manuel raises his elbow too often. Pedro is asleep in the corner, and I think it will not be bad to sound the retreat. Our asses are harnessed, will you that we take ‘French leave?’” An instant after, the three women, mounted on their asses, were on their way to the convent. The men accompanied them on foot, while Ramon, in a fit of jealousy and of chagrin, on seeing the married couple depart, struck his guitar with an insolent air and bellowed rather than sang:

“What a beautiful night!” said Stein to his wife, raising his eyes towards heaven. “See the starry firmament! See the evening star shining in its magnificence like the brightness of my happiness! My heart has now no want unsupplied, and I have nothing to regret.”

“And I who amused myself so much,” replied Marisalada, impatiently, “I do not see why we have left the fÊte so soon.”

“Good Maria,” said Pedro Santalo, “now we can die in peace.”

“Yes,” replied the old woman, “but we can as well live in joy; that would be much better.”

“How is it that you do not know how to restrain yourself when you have the glass in your hand?” said Dolores to her husband. “From the moment you slacken sail, there is not a cable that could bring you up.”

“Caramba!” replied Manuel: “I am here, what would you more? Still, one word more—I live on the brim and I return to the fÊte.”

The cries of the drinkers being continually heard, Dolores held her tongue, fearing that Manuel would put his threats into execution.

“JosÉ,” said Manuel to his brother-in-law, who had also been to the wedding, “is the moon full?”

“Certainly,” replied the shepherd. “Can you not see with your eyes? Do you not know what it is?”

“It should be a tear,” said Manuel, laughing.

“It is not a tear; it is a man.”

“A man!” exclaimed Dolores, altogether convinced by what her brother had said. “And what is this man?”

“I do not know—but I know his name.”

“And how is he called?”

“He is called Venus,” replied JosÉ.

Manuel began to laugh: he had drank more than usual, and, as they said, he was gay.

“Don Frederico,” said Manuel to the new-made husband, “shall I give you a piece of advice, in my quality of being older than you in this grand Confederacy?”

“Hold your tongue, for God’s sake, Manuel!” said Dolores.

“Will you leave me in peace? Listen, Don Frederico; to begin—with a wife and a dog, the bread in one hand, and a stick in the other.”

“Manuel!” repeated Dolores.

“Will you leave me tranquil? or I return to the wedding.”

Dolores thought it prudent to hold her peace.

“Don Frederico,” pursued Manuel, “wives or slaves, women are the most powerful enemies.”

“Do me the favor to hold your tongue, Manuel,” interrupted his mother.

“This is odd,” grumbled Manuel; “we were told we were assisting at an entertainment.”

“Do you not know, Manuel,” remarked the shepherd, “that these witticisms of thine are not to the taste of Don Frederico?”

“SeÑor,” said Manuel, in taking leave of the married pair, who proceeded towards the cabin, “when you repent of what you have done we will be united again, and we will together sing the same complaint.”

And he continued his route towards the convent. In the silence of night he was heard singing, in his clear and sonorous voice—

“Go to bed, Manuel, and nimbly,” his mother said to him, when they arrived at home.

“My wife takes care of that,” he replied; “is it not true, brunette?”

“What I wish is, that you were already asleep,” replied Dolores.

“Liar! how can you thus speak in opposition to your heart?”

“Do you not know how to hold your peace?” said his brother-in-law to him, laughing.

“Listen, JosÉ,” continued Manuel, “have you found in the thickets of the fields, or in the grottoes, any thing which could close the mouth of a woman? If you have found it, there will not be wanting people who will pay you for the information in solid gold. As to me, I have never met with it in this world, and I have learned nothing of it in the life of God.”

Thereupon he began to sing—