MARISALADA devoted all her time to perfecting herself in the art which promised her a brilliant future, a career of celebrity, and a position which, in flattering her vanity, would satisfy her love for luxury. Stein ceased not to admire the constancy of her studies, and was enthusiastic in his astonishment at her progress.

The introduction, however, of the Gaviota to the great world, had been retarded by the illness of the countess’s son.

From the first symptoms of his malady, the countess was forgetful of every thing around her, her reunions, her engagements, her pleasures, Marisalada and her friends, and above all, the elegant and young colonel of whom we have spoken. For this mother there was no longer any world but her son. She had passed fifteen days at his pillow without sleep, in prayers and tears. The teething of her infant did not progress; the gums were inflamed and painful; his life was in danger.

The duke advised this poor mother to consult Stein, and the skilful doctor arrested the malady by means of incisions which he made in the gums. From that moment Stein became the friend of that family. The countess folded him in her arms, and the count recompensed him as if he were a prince. The marchioness said he was a saint: the general avowed that there could be good physicians out of Spain.

Rita, despite her wildness, deigned to consult him as to her headache; and Raphael declared that some day when least thought of, he would break some of his bones to have the pleasure of being cured by the Grand Frederic.

One morning the countess, pale and feeble, was seated at the bedside of her sleeping son. Her mother occupied a low chair, and, as a precaution against the heat, she held in her hand a fan, which she used incessantly. Rita was engaged in embroidering a magnificent altar-cloth, which she was to make in connection with the countess.

Raphael entered. “Good-day, aunt! Good-day, my cousin! How is the heir of Algares?”

“As well as we could desire,” replied the countess.

“Then, my dear Gracia,” continued the cousin, “it seems to me it is time to quit your retreat. Your absence is an eclipse of the sun, which has thrown the whole city into consternation. The habituÉes of the fÊtes sigh unanimously. Soon, in sign of mourning, all the trees of our promenade, las Delicias, will be despoiled of their foliage. The Baron de Maude has added to his numerous collection of questions, that which regards your invisibility. This excess of maternal love scandalizes him. He says that in France they permit ladies to compose beautiful verses on this subject, but they will not tolerate a young mother who exposes her health, destroys the freshness of her complexion, by depriving herself of repose and food—forgetting, in fine, her individual well-being for love to her child.”

“What extravagance!” cried the marchioness. “Can there be in the world a country where the mother leaves for a single instant her sick child?”

“The major is worse still,” continued Raphael. “When he learned the sacrifices you were making, countess, he opened his eyes wider than ever, so astonished was he, and declared he had not believed the Spaniards so backward as to be deprived of the advantages of a nursery.”

“What is that?” asked the marchioness.

“Why, he said,” pursued Raphael, “that it was the Siberia of English children. Sir John says he will bet that you have become so thin and so frail that you will easily be taken for the daughter of Zephyr, with greater reason than the Andalusian mares, to whom they affix this origin, and who, spurred on by the prick of lances, will very soon be outrun by his English mare Atalante, when even to distance her you scatter barley in her path. Cousin, the only one who is at all consoled in your absence, is Polo, who weeps for you in publishing a volume of poems. But,” continued Raphael, on seeing Stein enter, and playing upon the word, “here, is the most esteemed of precious stones, stone as melodious as Momo. Don Frederico,” he said, “you, who are an observer of physiognomy, will see that in Spain, under all circumstances of life, the equality of humor, good-nature, and even joy, are unalterable! Here we have not the schwermuth of the Germans, the spleen of the English, nor the ennui of our neighbors. And do you know why? It is because we do not demand too much of life, because we do not aspire to a refined felicity.”

“It is,” affirmed the countess, “because we are accustomed to have no other tastes than those of our age.”

“And that our beautiful sky reflects the well-being of our souls,” added the countess.

“I believe,” said Stein, “that these are all the causes, joined to the national spirit, which makes poor Spain content with a morsel of bread, an orange, and a ray of the sun.”

“You say, Don Frederico,” replied the marchioness, “that in Spain every one is satisfied with his condition. Ah! dear doctor, how much I have to regret in observing that politics—”

“Aunt,” cried Rita, “if we enter upon politics I warn you that Don Frederico will fall into his German machine, Raphael into his English spleen, and that Gracia and I will become tainted with French ennui.”

“Are you not ashamed? Hold your tongue,” said her aunt, laughing.

“To avoid so great a misfortune,” replied Raphael, “I propose to compose a novel among ourselves.”

“Help! help!” cried the countess.

“What extravagance!” said her mother. “Will you write some chef d’oeuvre, like those which my daughter is in the habit of reading in the feuilletons published by the French?”

“Why not?” demanded Raphael.

“Because no one will read them,” replied the marchioness; “at least when not given as a Parisian production.”

“What does it matter to us?” replied Raphael. “We will write as the birds sing—for the pleasure of singing, and not for the pleasure of being heard.”

“Do not do it,” observed the marchioness, “do not write up seductions and adulteries. Is it a good thing to render women interesting by their faults? In the eyes of sensible persons, nothing inspires less interest than a young inconsistent woman, and an unchaste woman who neglects her duties.”

“Heaven!” said Raphael, “what eloquence! My aunt is inspired, illuminated! I will vote for her as a candidate for the Cortes.”

“Dispense also,” continued the marchioness, “with introducing into your novel the frightful suicide.”

“Apropos of suicides, will you kill yourself if I marry Don Luis?” asked Rita of Raphael.

“I, executioner of my innocent person! God preserve me, my beautiful ingrate! I will live to see you repent, to replace Don Luis, the conqueror, if one day he takes it into his head to play a game at monte, in the kingdom of Lucifer, his compeer.”

“My mother,” said the countess, “instead of tears and crimes, make something good and amusing.”

“But, Gracia,” replied Raphael, “it must be acknowledged that there is nothing so insipid in a novel as virtue only. Example: let us suppose I should write the biography of my aunt. I would say she was an excellent young girl; that she was married, with the approval of her parents, to a man suited to her; and that she is the model of wives and of mothers, without any other weakness than being a little prone to things of the past, and to have a little too great penchant for the tresillo. All this is very good for an epitaph, but it is rather simple for a novel.”

“Where have you discovered that I aspire to become the model of a heroine in a novel? What nonsense!”

“Then,” remarked Stein, “write an historical romance. No, rather a romance on manners. At this moment you are about to have a romance composed by me—a romance which will be composed of two styles.”

“The scene—will it be laid here?” said the marchioness. “You will see, Don Frederico.”

“I intend to take for my subject,” said Raphael, “the life, altogether moral and honorable, of my uncle, General Santa-Maria.”

“It only wanted this. You mock my brother. It seems to me that he will not lend himself to the joke. Go!”

“No, without doubt,” replied Raphael. “I respect and I esteem my uncle more than I do anybody in the world; and I know that his military virtues, pushed often to extremes, have drawn upon him the surname of Don Quixote of the army. But nothing in all this can prevent me from writing his history. Listen, then, illustrious doctor, to the history of my uncle—abridged. Santiago LeÓn Santa-Maria was from his birth destined for the noble career of arms, because he saw the light of day, or, to be more exact, the shades of night, when the drums, beating the retreat, passed before his paternal mansion. His entrÉe into the world, one might say, was made at the sound of the drum and fife.

“That’s true,” said the marchioness, smiling.

“I never lie—when I speak the truth,” gravely continued Raphael. “As a most certain sign of this predestination, he came into the world with a sword, color of blood, on his breast—a sword designed in most perfect form by the hand of nature; which made all the gossips salute the future general of the army of His Catholic Majesty.”

“There is nothing in all this,” interrupted the marchioness. “My brother had a mark on his breast, it is true—that of a radish, a simple longing of my mother.”

“Remark, doctor,” continued Raphael, “that my aunt depoetizes the history of her dear brother, and takes away all his prestige. A radish on the breast of a hero, in lieu of a military order! Go along, aunt, there is nothing more ridiculous.”

“What is there ridiculous in it,” said the marchioness, “to be born with a mark on his breast?”

“Raphael,” replied Rita, “I do not know all these particulars. Relate them without too much circumlocution.”

“Nothing obliges us to hunt after them, dear Rita,” replied Raphael. “One of our advantages over other nations is, that we do not live too fast. LeÓn Santa-Maria had scarcely accomplished his twelfth year when he entered a regiment as a cadet, and from that moment he held himself as straight as a gun: he became serious as a sermon, and grave as a funeral. He learned his exercise, and fought valiantly at Roussillon; then at last this dear uncle arrived at the age when the heart sings and sighs.”

“Raphael, Raphael,” cried his aunt, “do not relate things that should not be spoken.”

“Don’t fear, seÑora. I will only speak of his platonic loves.”

“Of what loves? Are there, by accident, different sorts of loves?”

“Platonic love,” replied Raphael, “is that which is satisfied with a look, a sigh, or a letter.”

“This you say beforehand,” replied the marchioness; “but you know that the corps d’armÉe came afterwards. Turn down the leaf then on this chapter.”

“Marchioness, have no fear. My history will be such that, after having read it, all the world will see the portrait of my uncle, holding the sword in one hand, and in the other the holy palm. His first love was for a pretty daughter of Osuna, where his regiment was in garrison. The day when he least thought of it the order arrived to depart. My uncle said he would return, and she began to sing, ‘Marlboro’ goes to the war.’ She would sing it yet, if a big cultivator had not offered her his big hand and his big farm. However, at the first she was inconsolable; she wept like the clouds of autumn, and ceased not to cry day and night; ‘Santa-Maria!’ so much so that a servant who slept in the adjoining chamber, believing that her mistress said the litanies, never neglected to respond devoutly—ora pro nobis. My uncle received orders to go to America; he returned to Spain to take part in the war of independence, and had very little time to think of love. It resulted in his loving only the beauties he could make march to the beating of the drum; his character was soured to a point which obtained for him the surname of General Verjuice. The sobriquet remains.”

“What risks you run, my nephew!”

“Aunt, I risk nothing. I only repeat what others have said. Little by little his sixtieth year arrived, bringing with it the ordinary cortÈge of rheumatisms and catarrhs, ornamented with all the appearances of an approaching chronic state. My aunt and all his friends advised him to retire from the army, and to marry and live tranquilly. You see that my noble relation felt himself led near to homoeopathy.”

“This new system,” demanded the marchioness, “which orders stimulants to refresh? Do not believe in them, doctor, and never give that kind of remedy.”

“Then, as I said,” continued Raphael, “there was here a young lady of a mature age, who would not marry to please her father, and her father would not allow her to marry according to her taste. The father, who is very haughty, saw that his child, called Donna Panaracia Cabeza de Vaca (head of a cow)—”

“Well! that noble part of the animal—”

“Laugh away if you will, Raphael,” interrupted the marchioness; “but know, Don Frederico, that this name, so ridiculous in the eyes of my nephew, is one of the most illustrious and most ancient in Spain; it owes its origin to the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa.”

“Which occurred,” added Raphael, “in the year 1212, and was gained by the king Alphonse IX., surnamed the Noble, father of the Queen Blanche of France, who was the mother of Saint Louis. This battle delivered Castile from the yoke of the Saracens.”

“In fact,” replied the marchioness, “I have heard all this related by my sister-in-law. Miramamolin (sovereign prince of the Moors), as my sister also stated, had retreated to a spot where he had deposited all his treasures, in a kind of intrenchment formed of iron chains. A river separated this commanding position from the Christian army: the king, who was unable to cross it, was in despair. Then an old shepherd, covered with a sort of capuchin mantle, came to him, and pointed out the spot where he could, without any difficulty, cross the stream at a ford indicated by the head of a cow which the wolves had devoured. Such was the importance of this information, that the king Alphonse gained the memorable battle of Tolosa. The grateful monarch ennobled him who had rendered him so great a service, and conferred on him and on his descendants the name of Cabeza de Vaca. My sister-in-law said that the statue of the patriotic shepherd, and the chains of the camp of Miramamolin, are still preserved in the cathedral of Toledo.”

“Six hundred years of nobility,” said Raphael, “is a bagatelle in comparison with ours; for you should know, doctor, that the name of Santa-Maria eclipses all the Cabeza de Vacas, if even their genealogical tree came from the horns of the cow which Noah had in his ark. Learn that we are related to the Holy Virgin—nothing less. And to prove it, I will tell you that one of our noble ancestors, when he counted his beads before his servants, according to the good Spanish custom—”

“A custom which is daily falling into disuse,” sighed the marchioness.

“Did not neglect to say,” pursued Raphael, “‘God save you; our lady and cousin protect thee!’ and the servants replied: ‘Holy Mary, cousin and lady of his excellency.’”

“Don’t say such things before strangers,” replied the countess: “they are enough prejudiced against us to credit them; or, without believing, they have enough bad faith to repeat them. That which you have related is known to everybody here. It is a poor joke invented to mock the exaggerated pretensions of our family as to the antiquity of our nobility.”

“Apropos of what strangers say: do you know, cousin, that Lord Londonderry has written, in his Travels in Spain, that there is but one beautiful woman in Seville, the Marchioness of A., concealing without doubt her name in a manner the most whimsical.”

“He is right,” replied the countess, “no one can be more beautiful than AdÈle.”

“Very handsome, cousin, but the only one! It is a frightful extravagance. The major is furious, and intends to institute a process for calumny, with full powers from the Giralda, who believes herself, and gives out, that she is the most beautiful person in all Seville.”

“That is to be more royalist than the king,” said Rita, with a gesture of disdain; “and you may assure the major, in the name of all the Sevillians, that we are very indifferent as to whether this lord finds us handsome or ugly. But continue your history, Raphael; you have yet to tell us of the preliminaries of your uncle’s marriage.”

“Above all,” said the marchioness, “I will inform Don Frederico that the nobility of our family dates back as far as the year 737. One of our forefathers killed the bear which had taken the life of the Gothic king Favila; it is for this that we have a bear on our family escutcheon.”

At these words Raphael burst out into a laughter so boisterous that he broke the thread of his aunt’s narrative.

“Let’s see,” said he, “here’s part second of Santa-Maria, our Lady and cousin! The marchioness possesses a collection of genealogical facts, the one as truthful as the others. She knows by heart all the history of the dukes of Albe, history which rivalled that of Perou.

“If you will have the goodness to relate them to me, SeÑora Marchioness,” remarked Stein, “I will be infinitely obliged to you.”

“With much pleasure,” replied the marchioness; “and I hope you will accord more credit to my words than this child Raphael, who pretends to know more than those who were born before him. I declare at the outset that nothing ennobles a man so much as courage.”

“According to this,” said Rita, “JosÉ Maria, the celebrated bandit, would be noble, and something more—grandee of Spain of the first class.”

“My nephews and nieces seem fond of contradiction,” replied the marchioness, with some impatience. “Well, yes! JosÉ Maria might have been noble, if he had not been a robber.”

“Since you are talking of JosÉ Maria,” added Raphael, “I will relate to Don Frederico a trait of the courage of this man. I have it from a good source.”

“We do not wish to know the exalted deeds of the hero of the carbine,” said the marchioness. “Raphael, you speak wrong, and out of place.”

“Listen to my history of JosÉ Maria. A robber, elegant, heroic, a gentleman, gallant, and distinguished, is a fruit which can grow only on our soil. You foreigners may have many dukes of Albe, but assuredly you cannot have a single JosÉ Maria.”

“What say you?” interrupted the marchioness, “that foreigners may have many Dukes of Albe? Yes, then, it is an easy thing! Listen, Don Frederico: When the pious King Ferdinand was before the walls of Seville, seeing that the siege was prolonged, he proposed to the Moorish king—”

“Who was named Axataf,” interrupted Raphael.

“His name is of no consequence,” continued the marchioness. “He then proposed to him, as I said, to decide the fate of the besieged city by a singular combat—a duel—between the two monarchs. The Moorish king had the shame to refuse the defiance. King Ferdinand had concealed from everybody his resolution, and when the designated hour arrived, he went out of his camp alone, and wended his way towards the place designed for the combat. A soldier of his guard who saw him depart, had some suspicions of his plan; fearing that the king might fall into an ambuscade, he armed himself, and followed at a distance. When the monarch arrived at the spot which is called to this day the King’s Fountain, and which was then a desert spot, he stopped, waiting the approach of the Moor. But while he waited for his enemy, the Moor had no thought of presenting himself at the rendezvous. Ferdinand passed the night there: at the dawn of the day he arose to retire, when he heard a noise among the foliage.

“‘Who are you?—show yourself!’ he cried out.

It was the soldier;—he obeyed.

“‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the king.

“‘Sire, I saw your Majesty leave the camp, and I divined your intention. I feared a snare, and I am come to defend you.’

“‘Alone?’

“‘Sire, your Majesty and I, are we not sufficient to vanquish two hundred Moors?’

“‘You left my camp a soldier, you will return as Duke of Albe.’”

“You see, Don Frederico,” remarked Raphael, “that this popular legend arranges duels at midnight, and creates dukes by the word of mouth.”

“Hold your tongue, Raphael, for the love of God,” said the countess, “and leave us this belief. Besides, this history pleases me.”

“Yes,” replied Raphael; “but the Duke of Albe will not be very grateful to your mother for the illustration which she would confer upon him. You will see if I am not right.”

Upon this, the young man left precipitately, and soon returned, carrying a folio volume in parchment which he had taken from the library of the count.

“Here,” said he, “are the origins, privileges, and antiquities of Castilian titles, by Don JosÉ Barni y Catalo, advocate to the Royal Councils. Page 140—‘Count of Albe, now duke. The first was Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, created Count of Albe by Juan II., in 1439. Don Enrique IV. was created duke in 1469. This illustrious and noble family is of royal blood. It has always occupied the first employments in Spain, whether in war or in politics. The Duke of Albe commanded in chief the army during the conquest of Flanders, and during that of Portugal, where he did wonders. This celebrated family shines with so much distinction, and possesses so much merit, that one must write volumes to enumerate them.’

“You see, aunt, that your history, however good, is not the less apocryphal.”

“I do not know from whence this word comes, I believe from the Greek,” continued the marchioness; “but to return to Santa-Maria, this name was given them because that—”

“Aunt! aunt!” said Rita, “stop, I pray you, our genealogical history. Have we not had enough of the Cabeza de Vaca, and the Dukes of Albe? When you think of entering upon a second marriage you can parade these glorious genealogies before your favorite.”

“The family name of the Dukes of Albe is Alvarez,” said Stein, “and it is also that of my host, a brave and honest retired merchant. I find it astonishing that in this country names the most illustrious are equally common to classes the most elevated, and to those the most infamous. It is for this strangers ask, Do all Spaniards believe themselves of noble blood?”

“It is a confusion of ideas,” answered Raphael, “as with every thing that regards Spain. Thus there is not a single foreigner who does not write in good faith respecting us, that all laborers wear at their side the sword of a gentleman. The same names of families are, without doubt, very common in Spain; but that arises in a great degree from the fact that formerly lords who possessed slaves gave their names to them on their emancipation. These names, which the free Moors already adopt, multiply, and more particularly those of great lords in proportion to the number of the slaves emancipated. Some of these new families became illustrious, and were ennobled, because many among them descended from Moors of noble race; but the grandees of Spain, who bear these names, need not be confounded with these families any more than with those of artisans whom they find in the same condition. We may also remark that many of these families have taken the names of places from whence they came; thus we have hundreds of Medina, Castillo, Navarre, Toledo, Burgos, Aragones, &c. As to these pretensions to nobility, so rife among Spaniards, I declare that the remark is not without foundation: it is certain there is in our country a great deal of pride joined to delicacy and an innate distinction; but we must not confound this salient point of the national character with the ridiculous affectations of nobility which we have seen in our time. The Spanish people do not aspire to embellish themselves with rags, or to quit the sphere in which Providence has placed them; but they attach as much importance to the purity of their blood as to their honor; above all in the northern provinces, where the inhabitants glory in not having any Moorish blood in their veins. This purity is lost by an illegitimate birth, by an alliance more or less doubtful with Moorish or Jewish blood, as also by their employment as mule-drivers, or public criers, and by ignominious penalties.”

“Dear me!” said Rita, “how tedious you are with your nobility! Will you, Raphael, do me the pleasure to continue the history of my uncle?”

“Again!” said the marchioness.

“Aunt,” replied Raphael, “I know of nothing more tiresome than an obstinate story-teller. Then, Don Frederico, Santa-Maria and Cabeza de Vaca united like two doves. Very often I have heard said that my aunt, the marchioness here present, has wept with joy and tenderness on seeing a union so well assorted. But he who was much astonished, as was everybody, and more than everybody, was my dear uncle, when, after due time, the Cabeza de Vaca gave birth to a little Santa-Maria as large as a fan, and who appeared to be the fruit of a union of an X and a Z. The Cabeza de Vaca was more proud than was Jupiter at the birth of Minerva. They had on this occasion a grand matrimonial discussion. The seÑora wished the sweet fruit of their love to be named Panoracio, a name which, since the battle of the plains of Tolosa, had been that of the first-born of the family. My uncle was obstinate, and wished that the future representative of the venerable Santa-Marias should have no other name than that of his father—a name sonorous and warlike. My aunt reconciled them by proposing to baptize the creature with the names of LeÓn Panoracio; and so the father has always called him Panoracio.”

This recital was suddenly interrupted by the general, who entered the saloon pale as death, his lips closed, and his eyes inflamed with anger.

“Powerful God!” said Raphael, in an under-tone, “I wish I were a hundred feet under ground, with the Roman statues which served the Moors to construct the foundations of the Giralda.”

“I am furious,” said the general.

“What is the matter, uncle?” the countess, red as a pomegranate, asked of him.

Rita lowered her head on her embroidery, and bit her lips to stifle her desire to laugh.

The marchioness had a face longer than that of Don Quixote.

“It is worse than the mockery of the world,” continued the general, in a voice of thunder; “it is an insult!”

“My uncle,” said the countess, softening her voice as much as possible, “where there is no bad thought, where there is only trifling which makes one giddy, with the disposition to laugh—”

“Disposition to laugh!” exclaimed the general. “Laugh at me! laugh at my wife! By my life, that will never happen again. I go, this instant even, to lodge my complaint with the police.”

“The police! are you in your sound senses, brother?” cried the marchioness.

“If I can happily get out of this,” said Raphael to Rita, “I vow to St. Juan the Silent to imitate him during a year and a day.”

“My dear LeÓn,” pursued the marchioness, “do not clothe this childishness with too much importance. Calm yourself. I know that he loves and respects you. Would you create scandal? Family complaints should never be made public. Come, LeÓn, let this be kept among ourselves.”

“What family complaints are you talking about?” replied the general, approaching his sister. “Is it a family affair to witness the unheard-of insolence of this ill-bred Englishman, who insults the people of the country?”

On hearing these words, the sister and all the others breathed as if a stone was taken from off their hearts; the history, then, had not been heard by the inflexible general, and Raphael demanded in the most severe tone he could give to his voice—

“What has he then done, this great amphibious animal?”

“What has he done? I will tell you. You know that, unfortunately for me, this man resides opposite to me. Well! at one o’clock at night, when everybody is enjoying his best sleep, the master opens his window, and begins to play on his trumpet!”

“I know he has a passion for that instrument,” said Raphael.

“Besides, he plays horribly bad, and the breath from his powerful chest brings notes from the instrument capable of waking the dead for twenty miles around; in such a manner too that all the dogs in the neighborhood set up a horrible barking and yelling. You will by this have an idea of the nights we have to pass.”

All the efforts which the auditors had made up to this moment to contain themselves now proved ineffectual. The burst of laughter was so instant, so loud, that the general was instantly mute, and cast on them an indignant look.

“It wanted but this, my friends! It wanted only one such audacious insolence, and one such contempt of honest people to create for you a subject for laughter. Laugh! laugh! we will soon see if your protÉgÉ, will laugh also, Raphael.”

He said this, and left the saloon, as furious as he had entered it. He went to lay his complaint before the police.

Rita laughed till her neck stretched.

“My God, Rita,” said the marchioness, “this is not a thing to make you so joyous. You have done wrong.”

“My aunt, I would laugh if I were even in my coffin. I promise you, to revenge my uncle, that when the Major Grande Mosca (big fly) comes to me to jabber his twaddle, I will not content myself with turning my back on him, but I will say to him, ‘Save your powerful breath to blow your trumpet with.’”

“You would do better,” replied Raphael, “to imitate foreign young ladies, who blush in saying ‘Good-day,’ and turn pale when they would say ‘Good-evening.’”

“With all this,” added Stein, persevering like a German, “you have promised me, SeÑor Arias, to relate to me a trait of courage of JosÉ Maria.”

“That will be for another day, Don Frederico. Here is my general-in-chief,” he said, taking out his watch; “it is three o’clock less a quarter, and I am invited to dine with the captain-general at three o’clock. Doctor, were I in your place I would offer the aid of my art to my aunt Cabeza de Vaca, in the critical state she is thrown into by the major’s trumpet.”