NOT until I found myself on the bridge of my steamer, between the sky and the sea, could I take account of the impression that the wife of MartÍ had made upon me. How many hours I have passed that way, in the solitude of the ocean, given over to my thoughts! Seldom have they been sad. My life, after the profound grief caused by the death of my fiancÉe, of which I have spoken, has generally had a tranquil, if not happy, course.

I was born in Alicante, my father a seafarer. In my school days I showed a fondness for study. My father would have desired me to become a lawyer or a physician; anything rather than a sailor. But I found such careers prosaic, and impelled by the romanticism natural to youth, and to my somewhat dreamy and fanciful temperament, I preferred that calling. My father agreed to this with apparent reluctance, but was, perhaps, pleased in reality by the appreciation that I showed for his own profession. I soon learned navigation, and made two voyages to Cuba. But my only sister having died and my mother feeling rather lonely, I felt obliged to stay at home and lead the life of a young gentleman of leisure. Nobody was surprised at this. As my father was said to have amassed a reasonable fortune, I was to a good degree exempt from the hard law of toil.

A few years later I fell in love. My marriage was arranged and would have taken place had not Matilde, as she was named, been taken ill. Her recovery was hoped for, but hoping and hoping, the good and beautiful girl passed from life. My grief was so intense that my health and even my reason were threatened. My parents could find no more adequate remedy than to send me to sea again. I agreed with indifference. Now I went as second officer in a steamer of the same company in which my father was employed. After a few months my father was crippled by rheumatism, and while he was undergoing treatment the owners placed me temporarily in command of the Urano. Unfortunately he could not resume his place; after dragging out a painful existence for some time he died. My mother would have liked me to forsake the sea and again live leisurely at home with her; but I had grown so accustomed to the sea, to the varied and active existence of the navigator, to-day in one port, to-morrow in another, that I could not be persuaded to forsake it. On board of my steamer, therefore, to which I had become greatly attached, I reached my thirty-sixth birthday. My mother died, and a little later the incident took place that I have just related.

I have said that when alone with my thoughts I comprehended that DoÑa Cristina had taken too much possession of them. Her image floated before me like a dream. That look, now grave, now roguish, of her black eyes; that impressionable shyness, her blushing like a schoolgirl in contrast with her gracious self-possession; then her facile forgiveness, and the repressed tenderness that she showed for her husband—all tended to idealize her. But more than anything, I confess, my own temperament contributed to this, and the solitude in which the mariner passes most of his time. After the death of Matilde no true love had ever occupied my heart again. Idle affairs, adventures for a few days, amused me along various degrees of the scale. And so I had come to see the first gray threads in my beard and hair. But my romantic nature, although dormant in the depths of my heart, was by no means dead. The adventures in folly, the coarse pleasures of the seaports, far from choking that tendency, encouraged its revival. I never felt more thoughtful and melancholy than after one of those affairs. To recover my equilibrium, I would stretch out under the awning with a book in my hands; filling my lungs with the pure sea air and opening my soul to the ideas of the great poets and philosophers, peace and joy would return. Reading has always been the supreme resource of my life, the most efficacious balm for its troubles.

The adventure with DoÑa Cristina transported me to complete ideality, and I breathed the atmosphere wherein I found myself most sane and happy. So I occupied myself with pleasurable thoughts about her, without considering that unhappy consequences might follow. Many a time, when a pretty young woman had crossed my path in port, I would afterwards tenaciously hold her image in my mind's eye. Again, in the solitude of the sea, fancy would evoke her, I would imagine her in diverse situations, I would make her talk and laugh, I would make her grow angry and weep, and would endow her with a thousand charming qualities. And in the companionship of this phantasm I would pass happy days, until on arrival in port it would dissolve or be replaced by another.

So now I attempted to do the same. But I could not succeed, even partially. DoÑa Cristina had not fleetingly passed me by like many other handsome women. The impression that she had left with me was much deeper; she had stirred nearly every fibre of my being. Instead of representing her as I chose, I saw her as she had appeared in reality. And again I felt the shame and the sadness that she had made me experience. On the other hand, her condition as a married woman deprived my dreams of the innocence that they had had on former occasions; it tinged them with a sombre shade that was little pleasing to my conscience.

I therefore determined to clear my mind of these thoughts. I sought to distract myself from such imaginings, to forget the beautiful Valenciana, and recover my peace. Thanks to my efforts, and even more to my prosaic occupations, I succeeded. But on skirting the eastern coast on my return trip from Hamburg, when I doubled the cape of San Antonio and there spread before my view the incomparably lovely plain that holds Valencia and surrounds it with its garden of eternal verdure like a brooch of emerald, the image of DoÑa Cristina appeared to me in form more ideal, more seductive than ever; it took possession of my imagination never to leave it again.

I do not know how it was, but the day after arriving at Barcelona I hastily adjusted the most important matters, left the ship in charge of the first officer, and took the train for Valencia. I arrived at dusk, went to a good hotel, dined, changed my clothes, and made the most careful toilette I had ever made in my life. Then I went out to look up the house of MartÍ.

Not until then did I take account of the folly I had committed. I well knew that MartÍ would receive me with open arms, and would be delighted at my visit. But what would his wife think of it? Would she not suspect that its motive was an interested one, and put herself on her guard? The idea that she might think that I sought payment in annoying gallantry for my service at Gijon was abhorrent. I was tempted to return to the hotel, go to bed, and leave the next day without letting anybody know that I was in Valencia. Nevertheless, an irresistible impulse pressed me to see her again. An instant, only for an instant, to engrave her image most profoundly in my soul and then to go away and dream of it through all my life!

Walking slowly I came to the Plaza de la Reina, the most central and lively place in the city. The night was serene, the air warm, the balconies were open; before the cafÉs people were sitting outdoors. And to think that there in Hamburg I had left the poor Germans shivering with cold! I took a seat under the awning of the CafÉ del Siglo, as much for the sake of calming myself as to wait until they had finished supper at the house of MartÍ. When I thought it was time, I entered the Calle del Mar, which was near by. I followed its course, agitated and joyous, and stopped before the number that MartÍ had indicated. It was one of the most sumptuous houses of the street, elegant, of modern construction, with a high principal story, crowned by a handsome upper story. The great portal was adorned by statues and plants and illuminated by two clusters of gaslights. One of the windows was open and at that moment there escaped the lively notes of a piano. "Is it she who is playing?" I asked myself with emotion. I enjoyed the music for a moment, and at last approached the door. The porter called a servant, whom I told that I wished to see his master on urgent business. I was shown into the office. MartÍ appeared without delay. What a cry of surprise! what a cordial embrace he gave me! Then taking me through a corridor, speaking to me meanwhile in a whisper that his wife might not fail to be surprised, he ushered me into a room full of people.

"Cristina, here comes the bad man!"

She was at the piano. At the sound of her husband's voice she turned her head; her eyes met mine. She instantly turned them away and back to the piano just as quickly, as if she had seen something sad or alarming. But controlling herself almost in the same moment, she rose, and, advancing towards me with a forced smile, she extended her hand.

"I am very glad to see you, Captain Ribot. We are immensely pleased to have you visit us."

I felt my heart constricted, and I could not help responding with a certain carelessness:

"There is no occasion for such feeling. It is entirely casual. I had some business to look after in Valencia and on that account you see me here."

MartÍ embraced me anew.

"I am enchanted with the rude frankness of you sailors! That is just the way to speak! Away with these conventional lies that deceive nobody and simply serve to show what actors we are. The main thing is that we have you here and that your visit gives us genuine pleasure."

Then turning to the company he added, not without a certain emphasis:

"SeÑores, I present you to the captain of the Urano. I have nothing more to say."

An extraordinarily lean young man approached to give me his hand. His skin was rough and weather-marked, as if he had come from long and painful labors in the sun. He was prematurely bald, and from his mouth there depended an enormous pipe stuffed with tobacco. He was dressed with elegance, though a little carelessly.

"My brother-in-law, Sabas."

He was followed by a person of about the age of MartÍ, more or less, tall rather than short, blonde, his mustache small and silky, his skin flaccid, most carefully shaven. He was likewise fashionably dressed, and with a care that contrasted with the negligence of the other.

"My intimate friend and partner, Don Enrique Castell."

These were the only men present. I was next taken before DoÑa Amparo, who was working at her crochet, seated in a crimson-velvet chair; I was then presented to the wife of his brother-in-law, a plump little woman, round-faced, blonde, and blue-eyed, sitting on a divan and at work with an embroidery frame on her lap. Beside her was a young girl of seventeen years whose face of admirable correctness, soft and ivory-like, had the same expression of timid innocence as the virgins of Murillo. She was the daughter of a white-haired lady with an aquiline nose and severe and imposing physiognomy, seated beside a gilded table with a newspaper in her hands. MartÍ presented me to her as his Aunt Clara, a cousin of his mother-in-law.

The entire company welcomed me most kindly, particularly DoÑa Amparo, who with tearful eyes seized both my hands, retaining them until the excess of her emotion obliged her to drop them in order to raise her handkerchief to her eyes. The conversation first turned upon the mishap of that lady. My conduct was eulogized to a degree that put me to shame and made me uneasy, and they discussed the causes of the accident. The brother-in-law of MartÍ, with voice cavernous and husky, perhaps from abuse of tobacco, bitterly censured the conduct of the authorities of Gijon for not having properly lighted the wharf. I replied that almost all wharves were lighted in the same way, since they were not intended for purposes of public pleasure but for the loading and unloading of merchandise. He insisted upon his position, showing that in all maritime cities the wharves are places of recreation. I replied that in that case people must look out for themselves. MartÍ cut short the dispute by asking me to what hotel I had gone, that he might send for my luggage. In vain I opposed his doing so. Seeing that he felt hurt by my refusal I gave way at last, all the more since the entire family joined in urging me.

In the meantime Cristina played the piano with careless fingers, talking all the while with her sister-in-law. She was elegantly dressed in a loose crimson gown beneath whose folds were revealed the lines of coming maternity. Whenever I could I gazed at her with intense attention. And when she observed it she seemed restless and nervous, and took pains that her eyes should not meet mine. MartÍ went out to give some orders about my chamber. His friend and partner, who had kept silent, reclining negligently in an easy-chair with legs crossed, began to ask me various questions about my voyages, the fleet of steamers, the ports where we touched, and everything relating to the commerce in which the ships of our line were engaged. The talk acquired the character of an examination, for Castell showed that he knew as much as I did, or more, about such things. He had travelled much, knew two or three languages perfectly, and on his travels had not only gained knowledge useful in commercial affairs but a multitude of ethnographic, historical, and artistic facts that I was far from possessing. He was a really accomplished man, but I could not help noting that he was fond of exhibiting his learning, that he carefully rounded his periods in his talk and listened to himself, and that, without lacking in courtesy, he did not conceal his slight appreciation of the opinions of others. On the whole the man was not congenial to me, although I recognized his excellent qualities. He had a voice clear and mellow like a preacher, with grave and noble gestures that enabled him to display his hand, which was short and beautiful, and ornamented with rings.

MartÍ returned, and his Aunt Clara, without giving up her newspaper, questioned him.

"How is it with olives, now, Emilio? Have they not risen twenty centimos this week?"

"Yes, aunt, I am informed that they have risen and will rise still further."

"It couldn't be otherwise," she exclaimed in triumphant tones. "I told Retamoso so last month, and he paid no attention to me. He is obstinate, like a good Galician, and so short-sighted in business that he can scarcely see the length of his nose. If it weren't for me, I believe that he would soon go into bankruptcy."

The voice of the lady was vibrant and powerful; her sculptural head raised itself so proudly when she spoke, her aquiline nose was held so high, and her eyes flashed so imposingly that in her presence one might fancy himself transported to the heroic age of the Roman republic. Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, could not have been more severe and majestic.

MartÍ coughed, to avoid replying, desiring neither to contradict his aunt nor to offend his uncle.

"And what do you say to the fall in cocoa?" she continued, with the heroic accent that might be employed in asking a consul about a legion surprised and overwhelmed by the Gauls.

MartÍ contented himself with shrugging his shoulders.

"Yet he had the assurance to deny that it is anything serious," she continued with increasing scorn. "It could only be hid from a man of the narrowest, most limited judgment, altogether unadapted to ventures in the wholesale trade. When I saw the Ibarra steamers arriving, loaded with Guayaquil, I said to myself, 'Yes, indeed, this staple is bound to fall.'"

"Uncle Diego knows how to tell where the shoe pinches, all the same," MartÍ ventured to remark.

"Yes, indeed! Behind a counter, selling cheese and codfish by the quarter pound, he would be invaluable. But as a man of business he is a good-for-nothing; it is only because I have taken the trouble to think for the two of us that we have been able to get where we are."

At this moment there appeared in the doorway a short stout man, of a pale complexion, bald, with small eyes, who greeted those present with a pronounced Galician accent.

"Good evening! How do you do?"

"Hola! Uncle Diego! How do you do, Retamoso?"

DoÑa Clara, caught in the act, turned her eyes again to her periodical, without abating an atom of her dignity.

Her husband, who, so far as could be seen, had heard nothing, shook hands with those about him, kissed his daughter, and coming over to his wife, said to her in affectionate tones:

"Don't read at night, wife! Now, you know you are trying your eyes."

DoÑa Clara took no notice. Retamoso, turning to the others, declared with profound conviction:

"She never can be idle. Isabelita, my daughter, entreat your mamma not to read! Now, you know that she does too much. When she is not reading, she is casting up accounts; when not casting up accounts, she goes down to the warehouse to make out bills; when not making out bills, she writes letters; when not writing letters, she speaks English with the Ricartes's governess. Hers is a wonderful head! I don't understand how she is able to do so many things in turn, without being either disturbed or fatigued."

I owe it to DoÑa Clara to say that she seemed suspicious of this panegyric, for instead of acknowledging it and showing herself gratified by it, she made the gesture of an offended queen.

"I do not disturb myself for such little things, dear, because I have trained myself in a manner different from the women of your province. If there they still go on spinning by the fireside, in the rest of the world they hold a more brilliant position. Here is a sailor," she added, indicating me, "who has travelled much, and can confirm this."

I bowed and murmured some courteous phrases.

"Well, all this does not hinder my admiring your ability," went on Retamoso in a tone of exaggerated adulation. "Does not all the world know it in Valencia? Am I to be the only one who does not, or pretends not to know it? How many women might be educated like you, and yet not have the capacity to accomplish in a month what you do in a day!"

"Tell me, Ribot," queried DoÑa Clara, addressing me as if she had not heard her husband, who went on murmuring flattering phrases, opening his eyes wide and arching his eyebrows to express the admiration which possessed him, "among all the many ports that you have visited, have you not met women with as much business faculty as men, or more?"

"I have known some women at the head of powerful commercial houses, directing with much wisdom, carrying on correspondences in several languages, and keeping their books with perfect exactitude. But—I confess freely that a woman engaging in industrial speculations, or inclined to politics or business, appears to me like a princess with a taste for selling matches and newspapers in the streets."

"What's this!" exclaimed DoÑa Clara, throwing up her Roman head. "Then you believe that the position of woman is nothing more than that of a domestic animal, caressed or beaten by man, according to his caprice? Woman should, in this view, remain always in complete ignorance, without studying, without instruction!"

"Let her be instructed as much as she likes," I replied, "but in my notion woman has no need of learning anything, because she knows everything——"

"Just so!" interrupted Retamoso with enthusiasm. "That has always been my opinion. Isabelita," he went on, turning to his daughter, "have I not said to you a thousand times that your mamma knows everything before having to learn it?"

I saw a smile flit over MartÍ's lips. Cristina rose from the piano where she had been sitting and went out of the room.

"I do not understand what you wish to say," declared DoÑa Clara, with a certain acerbity.

"Women who know how to make us happy, make happiness for themselves also. What other knowledge can equal this upon the earth? The toils of men, the callings conquered by civilization, go to achieve slowly and painfully what woman performs at once and without endeavor, making life more supportable, and alleviating its woes. Being, as she is, the repository of charity and of the gentle and beneficent sentiments, she guards in her heart the secret of the destiny of humanity, and transmits it by heredity and education to her sons, contributing to progress in this way more truly than ourselves."

"That is more gallant than exact," interrupted Castell, impertinently. "Woman is not the repository of progress, and has contributed nothing to it. You may study the history of the arts, the sciences, and the industries, and you will not find a single useful discovery that we owe to the genius or the industry of a woman. This demonstrates clearly that her mind is incapable of elevation to the sphere wherein move the high interests of civilization. Woman is not the repository of progress. She is solely the repository of being; and as this is the case, two things only ought to be demanded of her, health and beauty."

"You would be right," I replied, "if the unique phase of progress lay in useful discoveries. But there are others; and, as I understand them, more important ones—the brotherhood of man, the moral law. This is the true goal of the world."

Castell smiled, and, without looking at me, said in a low voice:

"For all that, I believe that I could name about fifty-seven other goals, if I know the world."

And lifting his voice he added: "I have discussed life with many men, and I can declare that scarcely one has failed to assign his own especial goal to the world. Among clergymen it is the triumph of the Church; among democrats, political liberty; among musicians, music; and among dancers, the dance. And yet the poor world contents itself with existing, laughing once in a while at so much folly, and trampling everybody under foot as it goes its way."

He paused and settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair. I felt annoyed at those words, and especially at the scornful tone in which they were uttered. I was going to reply with energy, but Castell continued his discourse, tranquilly expounding his thoughts in a series of reasonings held together with logic, and expressed in elegant and precise fashion. I could not help admiring the varied qualities of his erudition, his penetrative talent, and, above all, the clarity and grace of his choice of words. Like submissive slaves, all of those in the dictionary came trooping to his tongue's end, to express his thoughts easily and harmoniously.

His theories seemed strange and sad to me. The world bears its goal in its own existence. Morality is the result of especial conditions that life has unfolded for itself upon our planet. If the human race had been produced under conditions of life like those of the bees, it would be a duty for unmarried women to deal out death to their brothers, as the workers do. All manifestations of life, even to the highest, are ruled by instinct. The virtuous man, like the degenerate, is moved by an irresistible impulse of his nature. Morality, which the religious man admires as a divine revelation, is nothing more than an invention destined to satisfy this or that instinct.

I really found myself without enough courage to contradict successfully his audacious assertions. My reading was wide, but desultory, as I had read more for entertainment than for instruction.

Then, too, I had never cultivated expression; because my profession did not require it, and I wrestled with great difficulties whenever I tried to express my thoughts.

MartÍ came to my aid, cutting off the discussion in a jocular fashion.

"Do you know what is the destiny of woman according to my brother-in-law, Sabas?"

All looked up, including the one spoken of.

"Sewing on buttons."

"I don't see why you say that," muttered Sabas, ill-humoredly, taking his pipe in his hand.

"Why shouldn't I say it? There isn't a man in the Peninsula who has lost more buttons than you! Yet I could not mention one of having gone to your house and not finding Matilde sewing on some."

Sabas muttered some unintelligible words.

"What does she say?" asked MartÍ.

"Yes, he loses enough!" said the plump lady, laughing.

But her husband, coloring, gave MartÍ a severe glance.

"If he loses as many as there are in the world," interrupted DoÑa Amparo, from her little red-satin elbow-chair, "buttons are not everlasting, and I believe that my son would rather go like Adam than trouble others to sew on his buttons!"

She spoke these words with emotion as if they were accusing her son of a fault.

"Although he loses more than there are in the world, it is a matter of no importance, and not worth while for you to put yourself out about, or be vexed with us," replied MartÍ.

"I am put out about it because it seems to me that everybody has a desire to find fault with my son. The poor fellow is always in disgrace. But until the day he dies his mother will always defend him!"

She uttered these words with even more emotion. I saw with astonishment that she was preparing to weep.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her son-in-law.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter-in-law.

Both of them appeared contrite and concerned.

"Such is my maternal passion, my children!" went on DoÑa Amparo, struggling not to weep. "I cannot help it! We all have faults in this world, but a mother is not able to endure those of her children. I suffer horribly when anyone points them out to me, and much more when it is a member of the family. Some such sad ideas come into my head! It seems to me that you do not care for—I believe that I could die content if I knew that you cared as much for one another as I care for you."

Excess of emotion prevented her from saying more. She let her needlework fall upon her lap, leaned her forehead upon her hand, and seemed half ready to faint away.

Her daughter-in-law hurried to bring her flask of salts, and she began to smell it. MartÍ also assisted, with filial solicitude. Both showered a thousand affectionate attentions upon her, soothing her and making excuses. Thanks more to their tender words, I think, than to the salts, the sensitive mother recovered her faculties. When these were restored, she tenderly kissed her daughter-in-law's brow and seized MartÍ's hand, begging pardon for having offended them.

As I already knew a little of the character and whims of DoÑa Amparo, I was not surprised that Retamoso and his wife, Isabelita and Castell, paid scarcely any attention to this incident, and went on talking among themselves as if nothing had happened. Sabas, the cause of the disquiet, tranquilly smoked his pipe.

As soon as he had calmed his mother-in-law, MartÍ invited me to come with him that he might show me the room intended for me. It was luxurious and elegant, exceedingly luxurious it seemed to me who had passed my life in the narrow confines of a ship's cabin, or in our modest dwelling at Alicante. When we reached this room, a maid was making ready my bed under the seÑora's inspection. As we entered unheard she was herself smoothing the sheets with her delicate hands. Our footsteps made her lift her head, and as if she had been caught doing something wrong, she seemed annoyed, relinquished her task, and said to the maid with an ill-tempered accent:

"Well, you may go on with this, and see if you can finish it quickly."

She was going out, but her husband detained her, taking her hand.

"Have orders been given for bringing up cold coffee and cognac?"

"Yes, yes; Regina will stay and see to everything," she replied with some impatience, drawing away her hand and walking out.

I enjoyed her embarrassment with ill-concealed delight. As we went out again into the corridor I said to MartÍ, to make talk, and also out of curiosity:

"It seems to me that DoÑa Amparo was a good deal upset."

"You saw that!" he exclaimed, laughing in the frank and cordial manner that characterized him. "The least thing upsets her. The poor thing is so good! I am as fond of her as if she were my own mother. Her one desire is for us to love her. She is so sensitive that the least little sign of indifference, the smallest neglect, affects her deeply, and almost makes her ill. For that matter, although we all go on carefully, and are very attentive to her, it is not enough. Fancy this! I have taken up the custom of kissing her good-night before going to bed! If by bad luck I forget it for one day, the poor lady cannot sleep, thinking that I am vexed with her, wondering if she has offended me without knowing it; and next day she casts timid, anguished glances at me that I do not understand until my wife explains the enigma to me. I laugh, and go and smooth her down."

When we returned to the parlor, the company was dispersing. Castell gave me his well-cared-for hand, shaking mine, expressing with the careless coolness of a man of the world his pleasure in knowing me. Sabas and his wife showed more warmth. DoÑa Clara, majestic and severe, said good-night to me without mentioning Jupiter or Pollux, or any other pagan divinity, which surprised me. Retamoso improved a moment of confusion to say to me half in Galician:

"It may be that you are right, SeÑor de Ribot, and that women are not made for business. But mine is an exception, you know. Oh, a marvel! You have already had opportunity to be convinced of this. A veritable marvel. Phs!"

And he arched his eyebrows and showed the whites of his eyes, as if he beheld before him the Himalayas or the pyramids of Egypt.

Cristina took leave of them all from the head of the stair with the gracious gravity that suited so well her attractive face. I had eyes for nobody but her. DoÑa Amparo kissed everybody, kissed her son, her daughter-in-law, DoÑa Clara, Isabelita, and also, even, Retamoso. I do not say she kissed Castell, but I believe it was more from lack of courage than lack of inclination.

At last we four found ourselves alone. In order to prolong the waking moments, I begged Cristina to play on the piano a piece from an opera. She showed herself willing, and, without replying, seated herself on the piano stool, fingered the keys lightly for a moment, then commenced to sing in a half-voice the serenade from Mozart's "Don Juan." As I did not know of this accomplishment my surprise was great, but even greater my pleasure. Hers was a contralto voice, grave and sweet. The music of the great masters has always the power to move us, but when the voice of an adored woman transports the soul, music truly seems as if it had come hither from the heavens. I enjoyed for some moments a happiness impossible to describe. My very being was transformed, enlarged, quickened with love and joy. When the last notes of the lovely accompaniment died away, I remained swallowed up in a delicious ecstasy, scarcely knowing where I was.

MartÍ pulled me out of that abruptly.

"Come, come! The Captain is falling asleep!"

We all rose. DoÑa Amparo retired to her room, but not until MartÍ had kissed her hand, giving me at the same time a mischievous wink.

"If you need anything," said Cristina to me, "you have only to ring the bell."

And without giving me her hand, she wished me good-night. MartÍ accompanied me to my room, and took himself off, chaffing me affectionately.

"If you are not able to sleep without the smell of pitch, Captain, I will order a piece brought up and we will set it on fire."

When I found myself alone, all the impressions of the evening were loosed in my heart like imprisoned birds, and began fluttering about in a bewildering whirl. Why was I there? What did I expect? How was this going to end? The kind welcome and frank cordiality of this noble family moved me. The heartiness of MartÍ filled me with confusion and shame, but the lovely form of Cristina rose up before me, adorable, bewildering, blotting out all the rest. The thought of being so near her, when I had resigned myself to see her no more, overwhelmed me with felicity. I asked again and again, how would this end? At last I slept, kissing the hem of the sheet that her hands had smoothed.