WHEN they entered the convent, old Maria demanded of the noble convalescent, who always received his nurse with much kindness, how he had found her dear Marisalada.

“Is she not a beautiful creature?” she said.

“Certainly,” replied the duke. “Her eyes, as a poet says, are such as an eagle only can look at.”

“And her grace?” pursued the old woman; “and her voice?”

“Her voice! it is too beautiful to be lost in this solitude. You have nightingales enough, and goldfinches. Husband and wife must go with me.”

The thunder had fallen at the feet of Maria; and all the other words he spoke were as nothing.

“And do they wish it?” she cried in affright.

“They must wish it,” replied the duke, leaving the room.

Maria remained some moments confused and in a state of consternation. Then she went to find brother Gabriel.

“They are going,” she said to him, her eyes filled with tears, “they are going!”

“Thank God!” replied the brother. “They have enough deteriorated the marble pavement of the Prior’s cell. What will his reverence say when he comes back?”

“You have not understood me. Those who are going are Don Frederico and his wife.”

“They are going away! It’s impossible,” said the brother.

“Is it true?” asked Maria of Stein, who came in.

“She wishes it,” he replied dejectedly.

“That is what her father has always said,” continued Maria; “and with this response he would have let her die, if it had not been for us. Ah! Don Frederico, you are so well here! You would be like that Spaniard who being well would be better.”

“I hope for nothing better; I believe in nothing better in the world, my good Maria.”

“One day you will repent it. And poor Pedro! My God! why has this earthquake fallen on us?”

Don Modesto entered. For some time his visits had been very rare, not but the duke would have received him most amiably, nor but that his lordship would have exercised on him the same irresistible attraction which was felt by all who approached him, but Modesto was the slave of ceremony, and he imposed upon himself the rule not to present himself before the duke, general, and ex-minister of war, but in grand and rigorous ceremony.

Rosa Mistica had told him that his grand uniform could not stand active service, and this was the cause of the suspension of his visits. When Maria learned that the duke contemplated to depart in two days, Don Modesto retired immediately. He had formed a project, and he required time to realize it.

When Marisalada announced to her father the resolution she had taken to follow the advice of the duke, the grief which attacked the poor old Pedro would have softened a heart of stone.

He listened silently to the magnificent plans of his child, without either condemning or approving them; to her promises to revisit him in his cabin, he neither made request nor refusal. He regarded his child as a bird regards her offspring, when they try to quit the nest which they may never again enter. In one word, this excellent father wept in secret.

Next day the servants, horses, and mules which the duke had ordered for his departure arrived.

The cries, the good wishes, and the preparations for travel resounded throughout the convent.

Morrongo climbed upon the top of the roof and slept in the sun, and cast a look of contempt upon the tumult raised below him.

Palomo barked, growled, and protested so energetically against the strange invasion, that Manuel ordered Momo to fasten him up.

“There is no doubt,” said Momo, “but my grandma, who is a charlatan the most skilful to be found under the canopy of heaven, has no lover now to attract invalids to this house.”

The day of departure arrived. The duke was ready in his room. Stein and the Gaviota had arrived, followed by the poor fisherman, whose looks were on the ground, and his body bent double under the weight of his grief. This grief had made him old more than his years, more than ocean’s tempests; he let himself fall on the steps of the marble cross.

As to Modesto, he was there also; consternation was painted in his face. The infinitely small lock of hair on his head fell flabby and soft on one side; profound sighs escaped him.

“What ails you, my commandant?” asked Maria of him.

“Good Maria,” he replied, “to-day is the 15th of June, the day of my holy patron, a day sad and memorable in the past of my life. O San Modesto! is it possible that you treat me thus, even on the day which the church celebrates?”

“But what new thing has happened?” asked Maria, with impatience.

“See!” said the veteran, raising his arms and displaying a large rent, across which was seen the white lining of his uniform, like a row of teeth behind a laughing mocker.

Don Modesto was identified with his uniform; in losing it, there would have vanished the last hope of his profession.

“What a misfortune!” Maria sadly sighed.

“Rosita is laid up with a cold,” continued Don Modesto.

A servant entered.

“His excellency prays the commandant to have the goodness to go to him.”

Don Modesto rose proudly, took in his hand a letter carefully folded and sealed, pressed as near as possible the arm nearest his unfortunate rent, and presented himself to the duke, and saluted him respectfully in the strict military position.

“I wish your excellency,” he said, “a pleasant journey; and I hope that you will find the duchess and all your family in good health. I take, also, the liberty to pray your excellency to deliver into the hands of the minister of war this report, relative to the fort which I have the honor to command. Your excellency can be convinced by personal observation, of the urgency for repairs to re-establish the fort San Cristobal, now above all, when there is the question of a war with the Emperor of Morocco.”

“My dear Don Modesto,” the duke replied to him, “I cannot risk the promise of success to your report, but I advise you to plant a cross upon the battlement of your fort, as upon a sepulchre. In any case, I promise to recommend you, so that you will be paid the arrears for your services.”

This agreeable promise was not sufficiently powerful to efface the sad impression made on his heart by the sentence of death which the duke had pronounced against the citadel.

“Meantime,” said the duke, “I pray you to accept this as the souvenir of a friend.”

And, so saying, he pointed with his finger to a chair which was near to him. What was the surprise of this brave man when he saw exposed on that chair a complete uniform, new and bright, with two epaulets worthy to adorn the greatest captain of the age! Don Modesto, it was very natural, remained confused, astonished, dazzled at the sight of so much splendor and magnificence.

“I hope, commandant,” said the duke, “that you will live to such an age that this uniform may last you at least as long as its predecessor.”

“Ah! excellent seÑor,” replied Don Modesto, recovering by degrees the use of speech, “it is far too much for me.”

“Not at all,” replied the duke; “how many people are there who wear more splendid uniforms than this, who do not merit it as you do! I know, also, that you have a friend, an excellent hostess, to whom you would not be sorry to convey a souvenir. Do me the pleasure to convey this bijou to her.”

It was a chaplet of filigree, in gold and coral.

Then, without giving Don Modesto time to recover from his astonishment, the duke joined the family, which he had called together, to express to them his gratitude, and to leave them some gifts.

This noble lord did not confer his gifts with that disdainful generosity, and therefore wounding, which is so often met with among the rich; he conferred them knowing how to address those on whom fortune had not lavished her favors; he studied the needs and the tastes of each one. Thus all the inhabitants of the convent received what was the most necessary and the most agreeable to them. Manuel had a clock and a good watch; Momo a complete suit of clothes, a belt of yellow silk, and a fowling-piece; the women and children stuffs for their toilet and playthings; Anis, a kite of such vast dimensions that she disappeared behind this plaything as a rat would disappear behind the shield of Achilles. To the grandma Maria, the indefatigable nurse, the skilful maker of substantial soups, the duke gave a regular pension. As to poor brother Gabriel, he had nothing. He made so little noise in the world, and was so much hidden from the eyes of the duke, that he had never been seen by him. The grandma cut, at the suggestion of everybody, some ells from a piece of cloth the duke had given her; she added two cotton handkerchiefs, and went to find her protÉgÉ.

“Here, brother Gabriel,” she said to him, “here is a little present the duke makes you; I will take care to make the shirt.”

The poor brother remained as confused as the commandant. Gabriel was more than modest, he was humble.

All being ready to depart, the duke entered the court.

“Adieu, Momo,” said Marisalada. “Honor to Villamar! If I have ever seen you, I have forgotten you.”

“Adieu, Gaviota,” replied Momo, “if everybody weeps your departure as my mother’s son weeps, they will ring the bells to the whole bevy.”

Old Pedro remained seated on the steps of the cross. Maria was near him, and wept burning tears.

“Do not believe,” said the Gaviota, “that I depart for China, and that we will never come back again, when I tell you that I will come back! See—one would think you were assisting at the death of Bohemians! Have you taken a vow to spoil my pleasure in going to the city?”

“Mother,” said Manuel, much affected in witnessing the grief of the good Maria, “if you weep so much now, what will you do when I die?”

“I will not weep, son of my heart,” replied the mother, smiling in spite of her grief; “I shall not live to weep for thy death.”

The horses arrived. Stein cast himself into Maria’s arms.

“Do not forget us, Don Frederico,” said the old woman, sobbing: “return!”

“If I return not,” replied Stein, “it will be because I am dead.”

The duke, to distract Marisalada, in this painful separation, wished her at once to mount the mule which, by his orders, was destined for her use. The animal set off on a trot, the others followed, and all the cortÈge soon disappeared behind the angle of the convent. The poor father stretched out his arms towards his daughter.

“I shall never see her more!” he cried, suffocated by his grief; and he let fall his head on the steps of the cross.

The travellers continued their route, falling into a trot. Stein, arrived at Calvary, soothed his heart in addressing a fervent prayer to the Lord of Good-help, whose kind influence spread over all this country like the light around the sun.

Rosa Mistica was at her window when the travellers passed through the village.

“God pardon me!” she exclaimed, on seeing Marisalada on her mule at the duke’s side, “she does not even look at me! She does not even salute me! The demon of pride has already whispered in her heart. I bet,” she said, advancing nearer the window, “that she will not either salute the cura, who is below under the porch of the church; but the duke has set her the example. Hollo! he stops to speak to the pastor. He hands him a purse for the poor. He is so good, so generous a man! he does well, and God will recompense him!”

Rosa Mistica knew not yet the double surprise which was to happen to her. When Stein passed, he sadly saluted her with his hand.

“God accompany thee,” said Rosita, waving her handkerchief. “He is the best of men! Yesterday on quitting me he wept like a child. What a misfortune that he remains not in the village! He would not have left if he had not espoused this fool of a Gaviota, as Momo so well calls her.”

The little troop had arrived at the summit of a hill, and commenced to descend it. The houses of Villamar soon disappeared to Stein’s view, who could not tear himself away from this spot where he had lived so happily and so tranquilly.

The duke, all this time, imposed on himself the useless task of consoling Marisalada, and painting to her, in colors the most flattering, the brilliant projects of the future. Stein had no eyes but to contemplate the country which he was abandoning.

The cross of Calvary and the chapel of our Lord of Good-help were lost in the distance; then the grand mass of convent walls was effaced little by little. At last, in all this corner of the world, so calm and so peaceful, there was soon nothing seen but the ruins of the fort, its sombre form reflected upon the horizon of the azure firmament, and the tower which, according to the expression of a poet, like a gigantic finger pointed ceaselessly to Heaven with an irresistible eloquence.

Then all vanished. Stein burst into tears, covering his face with his hands.