I CAN swear that no anger entered into the agitation that I experienced. My pride did not resent her preference. I only felt a mortal sadness as if the last illusion left to me in life had flown away and escaped. And more, the deep love wherewith she inspired me was not quenched or lessened. The respect and idolatry of my sentiment were weakened, it is true, but its tenderness was at the same time increased. The goddess had fallen from her pedestal and was transformed into a woman. Losing in majesty, she had gained in charm.

During the days following, I observed that the humble expression of her face that had so much surprised me grew more marked. From this I judged that she acknowledged her fault and begged my pardon. Instead of showing myself troubled, I did everything possible to appear more respectful and cordial than before. She recognized this, and constantly gave me proofs of her affectionate friendship. Her heart was noble; if she had fallen in her own sight, it was owing to fatal circumstance, and not to her vicious inclination. Such were then my sentiments.

And MartÍ? Poor Emilio! Every time that I saw him I felt more and more attracted by his generosity and innocence. I thought that he was a little thinner, but always cheerful and always confiding. We spent one afternoon alone at the seaside. As neither he nor I was out of humor our conversation ran playfully from one subject to another, and we laughed at the anecdotes we happened to remember. One of those that I told had better fortune than it deserved. He laughed so much that at the end he grew pale, put his hand to his chest, and, to the great terror of us both, threw up blood. I helped him as well as I could, carried him to a fountain near by, where he drank water and washed himself. I was much startled by this. I could scarcely speak. I encouraged him, however, telling him that this was not important, and citing numerous cases of friends who had had this sort of thing without any serious consequences. When he had composed himself, he smiled.

"You are right. It is nothing. I am sure that my lungs are perfectly sound, because until now I have never even coughed. I will take a little better care of myself, and when summer comes, I will go as a precautionary measure to Panticosa. But it is necessary to keep all this from Cristina. You know how women are. Don't say anything to Castell either. He is very pessimistic, and his affection for me would make him alarmed. He would be capable, in his anxiety, of revealing it to Cristina."

My eyes, in spite of myself, filled with tears. Seeing this, he appeared surprised; there was a moment of suspense; then, laughing aloud, he embraced me, exclaiming:

"You are very original, Captain! There is some strength to be desired here too! But I confess that if I had not such a practical temperament, and were not accustomed to examine every subject coolly, this would make me apprehensive. Fortunately, I know what to count on in the strength of my constitution."

"My emotion was caused by surprise," I hastened to say, to mend matters. "And then I am not very well these days; my nerves are upset. But, as I have said, this means nothing, especially for you, who seem to be such a robust man."

"The most robust of men! I have nothing more than a rather weak stomach, and sometimes a little kidney trouble. Except for this, I am an oak. If this were not so, how could I endure all the work loaded on my shoulders, the frequent journeys, and all that I have to carry?"

"Exactly. I have no doubt of it. And you have never before felt any pain in your lungs?"

MartÍ took a few steps, looked at me closely, and in a voice made to seem strong by a special effort, answered:

"My lungs are those of an athlete!"

"Indeed?"

"Those of a gladiator," he insisted, shaking his head with an air of unquenchable conviction.

Upon this he launched into a panegyric of his respiratory apparatus with much enthusiasm and warmth. He could not have been more eloquent if he had been a commercial traveller and was offering it as a sample to a great commercial house. I congratulated him with equal enthusiasm on the possession of such a perfect example. Inspired by his own eulogies, he struck his chest, taking deep breaths, then sang the last aria of "Lucia." After that, who could have any doubts of his organs?

We returned to the house, he in an excellent humor, but not I; for in spite of his weight of testimony, I was not able to dismiss certain apprehensions. Indeed, as our pathway narrowed, and he walked ahead of me, his narrow shoulders, his long neck and drooping ears, did not remind me of the figure of Milon of Crotona nor any other winner in the Olympian games. It seemed to me that such magnificent lungs as he said he had would not have chosen such a poor lodging.

It was the hour of twilight. The park began to be filled with darkness and mystery. Although we were in the last days of September, the fresh blossoming flowers of that fortunate region filled the air with fragrance. The trees were as green and leafy as in early spring; the turf shone in eternal freshness. But mingled with the luxurious, romantic scent of heliotrope, roses, and violets came from surrounding orchards other heavier breaths of ripe fruits. The fruitful earth filled the air of heaven with the perfume of grapes and melons, pears and apples, drying hay and Indian corn.

In front of the house, seated in rocking-chairs, we found Cristina and her mother, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde. Her children were running about the garden, cackling and gabbling like parrots, while their unhappy mother watched them with a melancholy smile. When we appeared in front of a close thicket of Indian cannas, Castell was seated beside Cristina, talking to her in low tones. She cast one glance at her husband, then at me, and at once lowered her eyes with a serious, pondering expression on her face; but raising them again, she scrutinized Emilio carefully, while he sat down, chatting and laughing with exaggerated volubility. Cristina got up, went over to him, and said:

"Emilio, you are pale. Do you feel ill?"

"I? What an idea! I never felt better. It is because I have been laughing all the afternoon. The captain has a stock of delicious anecdotes. At supper we must tell some of them; not all, though, for they are all colors."

She was not satisfied; but although she went and sat down, her eyes never quitted him. Castell made efforts to attract her attention, talking into her ear. The conduct of that man seemed to me the height of cynicism.

Soon it was quite dark, and we went into the dining-room, where it was light and the table ready. Just as we were going to sit down at it, a servant entered, and calling MartÍ apart, gave him a letter, with an air of mystery. He opened it at once and was not able to repress a movement of annoyance. Pocketing it and excusing himself for a few moments, he took his hat and went out. Our curiosity was excited, but nobody said anything. At last Cristina, whose anxiety was evident, asked the man:

"Who gave you the letter?"

"A gentleman."

"Did he wait for an answer?"

"No, seÑora. He wanted to speak with the seÑor, and he went across by the main door to wait for him."

The unusualness of the incident, and the mysterious manner of the servant, increased our curiosity extraordinarily. We had not long to wait for its satisfaction. MartÍ presented himself in a few moments, and, putting his hat down on a chair, asked jocularly:

"Don't you all know whom I shall have the honor to present to you?"

We all looked eagerly at him.

"A gentleman whose name begins with an S."

"Sabas!" exclaimed Matilde.

Her next act was, with quivering face and violent gestures, to hurry her children out of their chairs, and, pushing them wildly before her, get them out of the room, herself following after.

We all stood up in our agitation. The nose of the deserting husband was promptly stuck in at the garden door, and behind it entered its interesting proprietor. A groan from DoÑa Amparo. A convulsive embrace next, tears in abundance.

Sabas, although in the arms of his mother, cast a wandering and afflicted glance about the dining-room.

"Matilde! My children!" he cried in a dramatic manner.

"All have abandoned thee except thy mother!" responded DoÑa Amparo in most pathetic accents.

Sabas leaned his head, a resigned victim, against the maternal bosom. At this DoÑa Amparo hugged him yet more fervently, ready to give her life-blood for her abandoned son. He freed himself at last, arranged his cravat, and held out his hand to us solemnly, in the dignified attitude of a general who concludes a capitulation after a heroic resistance.

He went up to greet Cristina, but she turned her back upon him, and went out of the room. He shook his head in a sentimental manner, and gave us a sweet, expressive glance. Then he raised his eyes to heaven, as if petitioning for the justice that earth denied him.

I was truly alarmed to see that his face was black and the skin peeled off in some places, especially the nose.

He looked as if he had returned from a scientific and civilizing expedition into Central Africa, rather than from a romantic expedition with a young lady to the capital of Catalonia.

DoÑa Amparo made him drink a glass of orange-flower water to calm him. There was no need of it. His attitude on that critical occasion, at once tranquil and resigned, impressed us profoundly. However, when he had drunk the orange-flower water, he said with astonishing firmness:

"I must see Matilde."

And, joining the action to the word, he proceeded, full of majesty, towards the door. He went on into the inner rooms. And we all followed him, we were so fascinated by his noble and severe manner.

We were filled with anxiety concerning the dramatic scene that was going to take place. Sabas opened two or three doors consecutively, without being able to find his wife. But his intrepid heart was not cast down. Without uttering a word he mounted to the upper story. We followed him anxiously.

Matilde was in her room, and Cristina was with her. At sight of her husband she groaned wrathfully, and started towards another door to try to get away again. Cristina tried to detain her.

"Let me go!" she cried madly; "I don't wish to see him."

"Matilde, for heaven's sake!" cried Cristina, embracing her.

"Let me go, let me go! Everything is over between us two!"

Then the fugitive, standing in the middle of the room, showed that his strength was leaving him. He put his hand feebly to his forehead, his legs doubled under him, and, taking just enough steps towards a sofa to reach it, he fell across it in a swoon.

We all ran to his aid, and his offended wife was not the last one. On the contrary, it was she who, grieving and trembling, bathed his temples with water, and unfastened his waistcoat and shirt to help him breathe, exclaiming wildly:

"Sabas, my Sabas! Forgive me!"

Meanwhile, DoÑa Amparo applied to his nostrils various chemical products of a stimulating nature. The rest of us helped on the restorative work more or less modestly, bringing a carafe of water, uncorking bottles, or giving air to the fainting man by means of a fan.

The only one who remained inactive, seeming indisposed to offer any hygienic aid to her brother, was Cristina. Standing erect near us, she looked strangely severe. Doubtless her behavior might seem to some persons cruel and unnatural; but not to me, for my deep, unreasoning love for this woman made all that she did seem right and proper, her every movement adorable.

At last Sabas returned to the world of consciousness, and asked of his mother, who was in front of him, that which has been asked so many times:

"Where am I?"

"With your wife!"

"With your mamma!"

"Who adores you!"

"Who idolizes you!"

Four feminine arms embraced him, and four lips were pressed almost at the same time above his skinned nose.

His eyes wandered about the room at all of us as if he did not know us, and were fixed at last upon his wife; then he groaned frightfully:

"Matilde! Matilde! Matilde!"

Then he hugged her and fell back in an attack of convulsive laughing. His loud laughter joined to the sobbing of his wife and the wails of DoÑa Amparo made a terrifying mixture that would have melted the hardest heart. More, by virtue of the contagion that all the world knows lies in this sort of an attack, I felt a shocking desire to laugh also. By hard work I managed to stifle it. I left the room and went down again to the dining-room. The others were not long in following me, leaving Sabas restored and at peace with his wife and his mother. Ten minutes later they came down also. Cristina gave the order to serve the soup, and I observed with some astonishment that Sabas dined with an excellent appetite, and during dinner showed himself as gay and disputatious and smart as ever. His wife devoured him with eyes of pure affection, and devoted herself to waiting upon him.

When we finished, he rose before taking his coffee, lighted a good cigar, and asked his brother-in-law if he would let him take his cab.

"But are you going out?" his wife asked him with surprise and annoyance.

"Yes; I am going to take my coffee at the Siglo. I haven't seen a single one of my friends yet. I shall be back soon."

Matilde tried to keep him, begging that he would not go that night, caressing his hands, with no result except to make him cross. Observing, however, the bad effect this had upon us, he changed his tone and embraced her, saying in endearing accents:

"Goosie! Aren't you going to let me go and celebrate our reconciliation?"

With this the infatuated wife was satisfied and content, brushed the dust from his shoes, and went with him to the cab door.

We remained in the dining-room some time. Emilio was the first to start to bed, saying that he felt sleepy. I thought that his hemorrhage had affected him more than he had acknowledged. Matilde went up to put her children to bed. We remained chatting, Isabelita and I in one corner, Cristina and Castell in another, while DoÑa Amparo embroidered by the light of a lamp between.

This state of things impressed me uncomfortably. We seemed like two pairs engaged in courtship, watched over by the mamma; and this idea, so far as it concerned Cristina and Castell, could not but fill me with great repugnance. Such was my faith in that woman that I scarcely believed what I saw. I was absent and melancholy, and with difficulty kept up the conversation with my intended.

My intended! The winds were driving me upon a coast where I didn't know whether I was going to be shipwrecked or find a snug harbor. I confessed to myself with alarm that since my dreadful convictions about Cristina, my heart was less inclined than ever to admit another woman.

When Matilde came down after getting her children to bed, in order to get out of this scarcely decent situation, and also to rid myself a little of the sadness that overpowered me, I proposed that we take a turn in the park. The proposition met with favor, and Cristina was the first to accept it, rising from the sofa where she had been sitting. But Castell said, with his usual decision:

"I don't feel equal to it. It is much too damp in the park at this hour."

Cristina turned and sat down again beside him.

"We are not so much in fear of dying, are we, Matilde?" I said smiling. She and Isabelita followed me. DoÑa Amparo stayed with her daughter and Castell. We went to the end of the garden, and from there entered the open spaces of the park, where the balmy air did me a great deal of good, for my brow had been burning and my heart filled with mournful presentiments.