THREE years had passed. Stein, who could sojourn among these few men who required so little, believed himself happy. He loved his wife with tenderness, and was attached more every day to his father-in-law; and as to the excellent family, those who had rescued him, a dying man, his affection for them had never wavered. His uniform and rural life was in harmony with the modesty of his tastes, and with the tranquillity of his honest soul. And, besides, the monotony wanted not for attractions: an existence always uniformly calm resembles the man who peacefully sleeps without dreaming, or those melodies composed of a few words, but which charm us with so much sweetness. Perhaps there is nothing which leaves more agreeable souvenirs than this monotony of existence—this successive enchainment of days which have nothing to distinguish one from that which precedes, or from that which follows it.

What must have been the surprise to the inhabitants of the cabin when, one morning, Momo rushed in out of breath, calling to Stein to go to the convent without losing a single instant.

“Has any one of the family fallen ill?” asked Stein alarmed.

“No,” answered Momo, “it is a lord, whom they address as ‘your excellency,’ who has been hunting the wild boar and roebuck in the hillock with his friends; in leaping the ravine the horse missed, and both fell. The horse is slashed, the cavalier has broken as many bones as he has in his body, and they have conveyed him to the convent on a litter. The monastery was transformed into a real Babylon. They believed it was the day of judgment. People went and came like a crowd among which a wolf had forced his way. The only one who retained his tranquillity was he who had caused the excitement, and who at a glance it was seen was a man of the grand world, a real young man. There they were all in confusion, without knowing what to do. My grandma had told them that there was here a surgeon like whom there were few seen: they would not believe her; but as to obtain one from Cadiz would occupy two days, and three more to obtain one from Seville, his excellency said he would have the one recommended by my grandma. It is for this I am come here. Now I will give you my opinion. If I were in your place, at present, when they have despised you, I would not go to the convent if they dragged me there with two horses.”

“I am not capable,” replied Stein, “of forgetting my duties as a Christian, nor those of a surgeon. I should have a heart of bronze to see one of my kind suffer without alleviating his sufferings when I have the power to do it. Beyond this, they cannot have confidence in me, as I am unknown to them; it is not therefore an offence, it would not even be one if they knew me.”

Stein and Momo arrived promptly at the convent. Maria, who awaited the doctor with impatience, conducted him to the wounded man, who had been placed in the cell of the prior, where they had made up for him the best bed possible. Maria and Stein passed through the crowd of sportsmen and servants, by whom the invalid was surrounded. He was a tall young man; on his pale but tranquil face fell a profusion of black hair. So soon as Stein looked at him he uttered a cry, and rushed towards him; but, fearing to touch him, he suddenly stopped, and crossing his trembling hands he cried out—

“My God! the duke!”

“You know me?” demanded the stranger, for the person Stein had recognized was the Duke d’Almanza. “You know me?” repeated the duke, raising his head, and casting his large black eyes on Stein, without power to recall to his mind who it was that had addressed him.

“He does not recollect me,” murmured Stein, while the large tears trembled in his eyes; “that is not strange: generous souls forget the good they confer, preserving eternally the favors they receive.”

“Wretched beginning,” said one of the assistants; “a surgeon who weeps!”

“What sad chance!” added another.

“Doctor,” said the duke to Stein, “I place myself in your hands, I confide myself to God, to you, and to my lucky star. I am ready, do not lose time.”

At these words Stein raised his head; his countenance remained calm, and by a silent gesture, but imperative and firm, he banished the spectators to a distance. Then he felt the duke with an accustomed and experienced hand. He displayed so much assurance and dexterity that every one kept silent. No sound was heard in the cell but the agitated breathing of the patient.

“Duke,” said Stein, after having completed his examination of the sprained ankle and the broken leg, “without doubt it is here the weight of the horse has fallen. Still, I believe I shall succeed in effecting a complete cure.”

“Will I become a cripple for life?” asked the duke.

“In my opinion, I can assure you, no.”

“Prove it so, and I will say that you are the best surgeon in the world.”

Stein, without stirring, sent for Manuel, whose strength and punctuality he knew. With his assistance he commenced operations which were more painful than can be imagined; but Stein seemed to take no notice of the pain the invalid felt, and whom he made almost to lose consciousness.

In about half an hour the duke reposed, suffering, but relieved.

In lieu of marks of contempt and fear, Stein received from the duke’s friends congratulations and the most lively expressions of esteem and admiration; the good doctor, restored to his natural modesty and timidity, replied politely to all.

But do you know who “took a bath of roses?” it was Maria.

“Did I not tell you so?” she incessantly repeated to all the sportsmen, “did I not tell you so?”

The duke’s friends, entirely tranquillized, went to attend the prayers about to be offered up. The invalid had demanded to be left alone, under the care of his excellent doctor, his old friend as he called him, and sent away nearly all his servants.

In this way the duke and his doctor could renew their acquaintance at their ease. The first was one of those men of a character, elevated, and but little material, with whom neither habit the attachment injured his physical well-being; one of those privileged beings who knew how to come down to the level of circumstances, not by a start or caprice, but constantly, by an energetic nature, and by a firm will, an impenetrable breastplate of iron, which may be symbolized in these words—“What matters it?” His was one of those hearts which beat under the armor of the fifteenth century, and the traces of which cannot now be met with except in Spain.

Stein related his campaigns, his misadventures, his arrival at the convent, his love, and his marriage.

The duke listened with much interest; and the recital gave him a great desire to know Marisalada, the fisherman, and the cabin which Stein preferred to a palace. Thus, on the occasion of his first going out, he directed his walk, accompanied by his doctor, to the sea-coast. Spring had commenced, and the freshness of the breeze, the pure breath of the immense element, lent its charm to their pilgrimage. The fort of St. Cristobal appeared to be ornamented with a green crown, in honor of the noble personage in regard to whom it is presented for the first time. The flowers which covered the roof of the cabin, real garden of Semiramis, crowded against each other, were agitated by the zephyrs, and resembled timid young girls who have love whispered in their ears. The sea, beautiful and calm, wafted its waves just to the feet of the duke, as if they would bid him welcome. The lark careering through space sent forth his sweet and faint notes, until he was lost to sight. The duke, a little fatigued, seated himself on a piece of rock: he was poetic, and he silently enjoyed the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly was heard a voice, simple and melancholy. The duke, surprised, looked at Stein. The doctor sighed. The voice continued to be heard.

“Stein,” said the duke to him, “are these sirens on the waves or angels in the air?”

Stein, as his response, took his flute, and repeated the same melancholy strain. Then the duke saw approaching, half running, half leaping, a young woman, who stopped suddenly on perceiving him.

“This is my wife,” said Stein, “my Mariquita.”

“Who possesses,” said the duke with enthusiasm, “the most wonderful voice in the world. SeÑora, I have visited all the theatres of Europe, but never have enchanting accents excited me to this point of admiration.”

If the brown and lustrous skin of Marisalada could change to another color, the blush of pride and pleasure would have shown in her cheeks, when she heard these exalted praises from the lips of so eminent a person, and so competent a judge.

“You two,” continued the duke, “have all that you could require to make your way in the world; and you would remain hidden in obscurity, and forgotten! This must not be. Will you not let society share in your brilliant qualities? I repeat, this cannot be, this must not be.”

“We are so happy here, duke,” replied Stein, “that if I make the least change in my situation I would believe myself an ingrate towards my destiny.”

“Stein,” exclaimed the duke, “where is that firm and calm courage which I admired in you when we were on the voyage together on board the ‘Royal Sovereign?’ What have you done with your love of science, the desire to consecrate yourself to suffering humanity? Have you allowed yourself to be enervated by your happiness? Can it be true that felicity renders a man selfish?”

Stein drooped his head.

“SeÑora,” continued the duke, “at your age, and with these happy gifts of nature, can you decide to remain forever attached to this rock, and to these ruins?”

Mariquita, whose heart beat under the influence of an ardent joy and a tempting hope, replied with, however, an apparent coldness—

“What will I gain by it?”

“And your father,” her husband asked of her; “do you believe he will give his consent?”

“He is a fisherman,” replied the Gaviota, feigning not to understand the true sense of the question.

The duke then entered into a long explanation of all the advantages which might arise for her distinction and a fortune.

Mariquita listened with avidity, while the duke contemplated with rapture the play of this countenance, alternately cold and full of enthusiasm, alternately impassible and energetic.

When the duke retired, Mariquita pinched the ear of Stein, and said to him eagerly—

“We will go! we will go! and whatever happens, I feel called to go. Crowns are promised me, and will I remain deaf to all that? No! no!”

Stein sorrowfully followed the duke.