WHEN I had dressed myself, and after I had complied with my ordinary duties and looked after the carpenters repairing the damages from the fire, I thought of the lady who had been on the point of drowning the night before. In strict truth, the one whom I thought of was the daughter. Those eyes were of the kind that neither can be, nor should be, forgotten. And with the vague hope of seeing them again I went ashore and directed my steps towards the apothecary's.

The druggist informed me that they were stopping at the Iberia. So I went to ask about the lady's condition.

"Is it necessary that you should see them?" the chambermaid asked me.

That was my desire, but I hardly ventured to say so. I told her it was not necessary, but I should like to know how they had passed the night. I was told that DoÑa Amparo (the old lady) had rested fairly well and that the doctor, who had just gone, found her better than he had expected. DoÑa Cristina (the young lady) was perfectly well. I left my card and went down stairs somewhat depressed. But I had no sooner reached the street floor than the chambermaid came after me and asked me to come back, saying that the ladies wished to see me.

DoÑa Cristina came out into the corridor to meet me. She wore an elegant morning-gown of a violet color, and her black hair was half-imprisoned by a white cap with violet ribbons. Her eyes were beaming with delight and she held out her hand most cordially.

"Good morning, Captain. Why were you avoiding the thanks we wished to give you? I had just finished a letter to you in which I expressed, if not all the gratitude we feel, at least a part. But it is better that you have come—and yet the letter was not wholly bad!" she added, smiling. "Although you may not believe it, we women are more eloquent with the pen than with the tongue."

She took me into a parlor where there was an alcove whose glazed doors were shut.

"Mamma," she called, "here is the gentleman who saved you, the captain of the Urano."

I heard a melancholy murmuring, something like suppressed sighing and sobbing, with words between that I could not make out. I questioned the daughter with my eyes.

"She says that she regrets extremely having caused you to risk your life."

I replied in a loud tone that I had run no danger at all; but even if I had, I was simply doing my duty.

Again there proceeded from the alcove various confused sounds.

"She tells me to give you a tablespoonful of orange-flower extract."

"What for?" I exclaimed in surprise.

"She thinks that you also must have sustained a shock," explained DoÑa Cristina, laughing. "Mamma uses that remedy a great deal, and makes us all take it too. Just tell her that you are going to take it, and it will please her immensely."

Before I could recover from my astonishment I did as DoÑa Cristina requested, and was immediately rewarded with a murmur of approval.

"I have just given it to him, mamma," she announced, darting a mischievous glance at me. "Now you may feel at ease!"

"Many thanks, seÑora," I called out. "I believe it will do me good, for I was feeling a bit nervous."

DoÑa Cristina pressed my hand and struggled to keep from laughing. She said in a low voice:

"Bravo! You are on the way to become a consummate actor."

The strange and unintelligible sounds renewed themselves.

"She asks if you have telegraphed to your wife, and advises you not to do so, as it might frighten her."

"I have no wife. I am a bachelor."

"Then to your mother," DoÑa Cristina had the goodness to interpret.

"I have no mother, either; nor father, nor brothers or sisters. I am alone in the world."

DoÑa Amparo, so far as I could understand, showed herself surprised and displeased at my lone condition, and invited me to change it without loss of time. She also added that a man like me was destined to make any woman happy. I do not know what qualities of a husband the lady could have observed in me, except facility in grasping and sliding down a cable. I responded that surely I desired nothing else; but up to now no occasion had presented itself. My life as a mariner, to-day in one place, to-morrow in another, the shyness of men like me who do not frequent society, and even the fact that I had not met a woman who really interested me—all this had impeded its realization.

While saying this I fixed my gaze upon the smiling eyes of DoÑa Cristina.

A sweet and fanciful thought thereupon came into my head.

"Let us change the subject, mamma. Everyone follows his own pleasure, and if the Captain has not married it must be, of course, because he has not cared to."

"Exactly," said I, smiling, and gazing at her fixedly, "I have not cared to marry up to the present, but I cannot say that I may not care to some day when least looked for."

"Meanwhile we wish that you may be happy; that you may get a very handsome wife and a half-dozen plump children—lively and mischievous."

"Amen," I exclaimed.

The frankness and graciousness of the young lady were spontaneously attractive. I felt as much at ease with her as if I had known her for years. She invited me to seat myself on the sofa, seating herself there also, speaking low that her mother might rest, for the doctor had said that she had better not talk.

I asked for the details of her mother's condition, and was told that she had suffered a slight contusion on the shoulder, which the doctor had said was of little account. She had also overcome the ill effects of the chill. The only thing to be feared was the nervous shock. Her mamma was very nervous; her heart troubled her, and nobody could say what might be the consequences of that terrible shock. I did my best to assuage her fears. Then to make conversation, I asked her if they were Asturians, although knowing that they were not, both from what the doctor had said, and because of their accent.

"No, seÑor, we are Valencianas."

"Really? Valencianas?" I exclaimed. "Then we are almost compatriots! I was born in Alicante."

So we continued the talk in Valencian, with pleasure unspeakable on my part, and I think also on her part. She told me that they had been in Gijon only nine days, having come to visit a nun who was her mother's sister. They had had this intention for years, and had never carried it into effect before, on account of the length and discomfort of the journey. At last they had undertaken it, but unfortunately, it seemed, for it had nearly cost her mother her life. They were pleased with the country, although it seemed rather dull in comparison with their own.

"O Valencia!" I exclaimed with ardor, "I who have visited the most remote regions of the earth and have been on so many diverse shores, have never found anything comparable to that land. There the sun does not rise in blood, as it does in the North, nor scorch as in Andalusia; its light is gently diffused in balmy and tranquil air. The sea does not terrify as it does here; it is bluer and its foam is whiter and lighter. There the birds sing with notes more dulcet and varied; there the breeze caresses at night as by day; there the delicious fruits, that in other parts are in season only in the heat of summer, are enjoyed the year around; there not only the flowers and the herbs have scent, the earth itself exhales a delicate aroma. There life is not sad and weary. Everything is gentle, everything serene and harmonious. And the tranquillity of Nature seems to be reflected in the profound gaze of the Valencian women."

That of DoÑa Cristina, which was the most gentle and profound I had ever seen, sparkled with a certain mischievous delight.

"Who would think, hearing you talk, that you were a sea-wolf! You speak like a poet. I am almost tempted to believe that you have contributed verses to the periodicals."

"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, laughing. "I am an inoffensive poet. I never write either verses or prose; but you will pardon me for saying that those eyes of yours revived in my memory various beautiful things, all Valencian, and the poetry went to my head."

DoÑa Cristina appeared to remain in suspense for a moment; she regarded me with more curiosity than gratification, and changing the conversation she asked graciously:

"And the steamer that you are commanding—does she go to America?"

"Only once in a while. Usually we run between Barcelona and Hamburg."

"And your stop here is for several days?"

"Just long enough to repair the damages from a little fire on board, day before yesterday."

On my part, I asked how long they proposed to remained in Gijon.

"We had been thinking of leaving the day after to-morrow and stopping some days in Madrid, where we expected to meet my husband; but now it is necessary to postpone going on account of what has happened. At all events, as soon as my mother has completely recovered herself and the doctor gives permission, we shall start."

I must confess it although it may seem ridiculous—that "my husband" produced a strange sensation of chill and discouragement in me that I could scarcely succeed in hiding. How the devil had it not occurred to me that the young lady might be married? I cannot account for it to this day. And conceding it to be the case, why should the information cause such a bitter emotion when it concerned a person whom I was only just beginning to be acquainted with? I cannot account for that either. I am tempted to believe in the truth of what happens in the old comedies when the gallant is fired with love at first sight of the lady. If I was not on fire, at least I had on board all the materials for the fire.

Nevertheless, reason soon asserted its supremacy. I comprehended the absurdity and the ridiculous character of my sensations, and, calming myself, I asked about her husband with natural and friendly interest. She told me that he was called Emilio MartÍ, and was one of the partners in the shipping house of Castell and MartÍ, whose steamers run to Liverpool. Moreover, he had various other lines of business, for he was an active and enterprising man. They had been married only two years.

"And you have no family?"

"Not as yet," she responded, blushing slightly.

She went on to tell me that they were both born in Valencia, where they had always lived; through the winter in the city, Calle del Mar; in the summer time at their villa in CabaÑal.

I knew several of the Castell and MartÍ steamers. I spoke of my satisfaction in placing myself at the service of the wife of one of their owners.

We talked a little longer. I was downcast and felt a desire to go. I managed to take my leave, but not without another dialogue with DoÑa Amparo with closed doors and an interpreter. On reaching the street my unfounded and even irrational depression was soon dissipated, as I talked with acquaintances and went about my affairs. But all through the day the figure of DoÑa Cristina was constantly present to my imagination. I adore women who are slender and white, with great black eyes. My friends used to tell me once that in order to suit my taste a woman must be in the last stage of phthisis. They were not far from right. My only love had been a consumptive, and she died when all the preparations were made for our marriage.

The next day I held it to be in the line of my duty to go to the hotel to inquire about the ladies. DoÑa Cristina asked me in and received me with even greater cordiality, putting her finger to her lips and asking me to speak in whispers like herself, for her mother was sleeping. We seated ourselves on the sofa and chatted in low but lively tones. DoÑa Amparo was well, and required nothing but attention.

"Moreover (I will tell you in confidence), until they have finished her wig she will not show herself outside her room."

"Ah, the wig! Yes, I remember now."

"Yes, you remember that you tore it off, wicked one!" she replied, laughing.

"SeÑora, it was impossible to foresee! It is fortunate that I did not tear her head from her body."

We both laughed heartily, forcing ourselves at the same time to laugh noiselessly. A moment later she said, in a way so natural that it pleased me immensely:

"I am hungry, captain, and am going to have some breakfast. Will you not join me?"

I thanked her and excused myself. But as I could not say that I had breakfasted she said that of course I must breakfast with her, and went out to give some orders. I felt delighted, and even if I should say enthusiastic it would not be an untruth. While the maid was getting the table ready in the room where we were, we continued our chat, our mutual confidence steadily growing. All through the breakfast she treated me with a cordiality so frank and hospitable that it quite charmed me. She cut bread and meat for me with her own hands and poured out wine and water. When I wanted a dish or a plate, with provincial simplicity she would jump up and take it from the sideboard without waiting for the maid.

I told her jestingly of the grave occupation in which her cries had surprised me the night of the accident. She laughed heartily and promised to make it up to me when I came to Valencia, by cooking a paella for me by all the rules of the art.

"Not that I have the mad presumption of expecting to make you forget the tripe of SeÑora Ramona. I shall be satisfied if you eat a couple of platefuls."

"Why a couple? I perceive with sadness that you take me for a gross and material being. I hope to show you, in the course of time, that apart from these hours of tripe and snails, I am a man naturally spiritually-minded, poetic, and even, to some extent, delicate."

She ridiculed this, piling up my plate in most scandalous style, inviting me not to dissimulate my true condition, but to eat as if she were not present.

"Do not think of my being a lady. Fancy yourself breakfasting with a companion—the pilot, for instance."

"I have not sufficient imagination for that. The pilot is squint-eyed and lacks two teeth."

This lively and intimate chat intoxicated me more than the Bordeaux that she poured for me without ceasing. And her eyes intoxicated me more than the wine or the chat. Although we talked in whispers and checked our laughter, occasionally there escaped me an indiscreet note. DoÑa Cristina raised her finger to her lips. "Silence, Captain, or I shall have to sentence you to the corridor before you have half breakfasted."

She asked me to tell her something about my life. I gratified her curiosity, relating my history, which was simple enough. We discussed the pleasures of a sailor's life, which she thought superior to those of any other.

"I adore the sea, but the sea of my home above all. Here it makes me afraid and sad. If you could see how often I go to the window of our villa at CabaÑal to look at it!"

"But in Valencia I prefer the women to the sea," I remarked, having reached too lively a stage.

"I can believe it," she responded, smiling. "Oh, they are very beautiful. I have a little cousin named Isabel who is truly perfection. What eyes that child has!"

"Are they more beautiful than yours?" I asked presumptuously.

"Oh, mine are of no account," she answered with a blush.

"Of no account?" I questioned with astonishment. "Indeed, there are no others so bewitching on all this eastern coast, among all the beautiful ones that there abound. They are two stars of heaven! They are a happy dream from which one would never wish to awake!"

She instantly became serious. She kept silence for a while, without raising her eyes from the tablecloth. Then she said with an affected indifference, not free from severity:

"You have breakfasted fairly well, have you not? But on board the food is better than at hotels."

I kept silent for a while, in turn. Without responding to her question, after a moment I said:

"Pardon me. We sailors express ourselves too frankly. We are not versed in etiquette, but our intentions must excuse us. Mine were not to say anything impertinent."

She was immediately mollified, and we continued our chat with the same cordiality until the end of the breakfast.