ONCE more the sea! Port traffic, the noise of loading and unloading, troublesome business in the consignees' office—afterwards lonely, tranquil hours lulled by the songs of the sailors and the murmur of waters against the keel! I did not let my dream of love weigh down my soul. At the end of several months, it remained a tender and poetic impression which gave reality to my existence. Yet when one night we passed Valencia, and I saw the lights of CabaÑal shining in the distance, I was surprised to find myself singing on the bridge in a low voice the farewell from "Grumete"—

And, without being able to help it, my eyes filled with tears like a sentimental female. But that soon passed, and I soon recovered the joyous mood which seldom, thank heaven, forsook me.

I heard from a friend in Barcelona that Castell had married Isabelita Retamoso. Much good may it do! I learned from the same man that the steamship company, Castell and MartÍ, had gone to pieces, and that both partners were involved in a ruinous lawsuit. On hearing that, I could not refrain from exclaiming with exquisite delight:

"Ruined, it may be! but dishonored, no!"

My friend stared at me surprised, and it cost me not a little to evade an explanation. Did not some self-satisfaction enter into my pleasure? I am almost sure it did. I do not give myself out for a saint, and not even the saints are able to get rid of self-love entirely. At last, on my return from Hamburg, after one of my voyages, I found in Barcelona a letter that had been waiting for me several days. It was from MartÍ, although written in another hand. He told me that he was very ill, and in trouble, and invited me in extremely affectionate terms to come and make him a visit if it were possible. He did not explain what his troubles were, nor allude in the least to the misunderstanding that had been between us, perhaps not to let his amanuensis into our secrets; but the whole letter breathed of his hearty desire to be all right with me again, and to make me forget my unhappy departure from his house.

I took the train immediately for Valencia. I entered the city at nightfall, one year and three months after leaving it. I went to the hotel where I had then stayed. The hotel-keeper received me with cordial demonstration, and told me, without my asking, many details of the lawsuit between Castell and MartÍ. MartÍ was ruined. He had lost his directing share in the steamboat line, in which his partner still remained. Following that, to reimburse himself for capital loaned, Castell transferred MartÍ's credit. The creditors sold all his property at auction, including that at CabaÑal and the house in the Calle del Mar.

"If, in spite of all this," said my host, "Don Emilio enjoyed good health, he could easily get up again, for he is young and he has a great head for business. But the poor man is very ill, very ill. I have not seen him for some time, but by all that I hear it is his last sickness."

These words made me very sad. It was dinnertime; but, although I went and sat down at table, I could scarcely take a morsel of food. I went out afterwards, intending to go to the house of MartÍ—he was living now in an apartment in the Calle de Caballeros. Before arriving I turned about, fearing to disturb him at that hour, or cause him any emotion that might hinder him from resting well. I directed my steps to the residence of his brother-in-law, Sabas, that he might prepare MartÍ, or at least advise me when it would be best for me to go to see him. Sabas's plump wife, as lively, busy, and sweet as ever, received me with her usual affability. Her idolized husband had gone out.

"He is at Emilio's house?" I said, as the natural thing.

"No, I believe—" she hesitated. "You had better go to the theatre. Maybe he is there. As the doctor found Emilio better to-day, he said that he would go and celebrate."

She blushed as she uttered these words. I showed no surprise, in order not to increase her confusion. After kissing my old friends, her children, I went off to the theatre that she named in search of their elegant papa.

When I entered, the play had already begun. I took up a position in a corner behind the stalls and scrutinized the theatre. I was not long in seeing him in his place in a proscenium box. These boxes in the provinces, as in the capital, are the sacred spots, whence the superior beings of each locality radiate their splendors. Accustomed to lay down the law for the multitude, the gilded youths who meet there, converse, argue, smoke, and yawn, firmly convinced that they have no duties to fulfil towards the masses, those who listen placidly from the stalls. They dwell separate like the gods of Olympus, in conscious enjoyment of their perfections and their power, grinning at the actors, tossing compliments to the actresses, and from time to time talking in loud voices with their kind in the opposite boxes, over the heads of the rabble of the unfashionable.

Sabas belonged to the ruling caste, although his face showed none of the marks that characterize it, neither the flabby flesh, the pallid skin, nor the loose mouth, signs of the life of self-indulgence.

His dark, sunburned face, peeled in places, offered rather an extremely industrious aspect. It would not have been strange if he had arrived that same night from Madagascar or Java, after enriching himself in a caoutchouc expedition. This was doubtless the opinion of the contralto of the company (much richer in avoirdupois than in voice), to judge by the timid admiration and the blushes wherewith she received his ardent compliments every time that the exigencies of the piece obliged her to go near his box. I sat down in one of the butacas and waited for the fall of the curtain. I confess that I was less interested in what was going on on the stage than in the play that was revealed between the box and the footlights. Sabas, leaning his chin in his hand with a purely Oriental languor, fixed his gaze of serpent-like fascination upon the contralto. She, overcome with an irresistible terror, made efforts to flee from that glance and escape. In vain. In spite of herself, even in the most important scenes and against all the demands of the play, she would break abruptly away from the tenor in a love duet and turn towards that tropical and fascinating man of the quivering nostrils. She listened with eagerness to his voice vibrating like a cry in the desert, hoping ever that he would end by offering her fifty elephants, a necklace of pearls, and the heads of three rajahs, his enemies.

When the act was ended I went without delay to the box. Sabas received me with the grave indifference which, in all perfectly cultivated countries, expresses elegance. I explained my wishes at once. He accepted them benignly; disdaining his conquest, secure like all heroes of arriving always in time to conquer, he took his hat and we left the theatre. We walked for some time in silence. I felt my heart oppressed with sadness wherein I perceived with alarm a certain anticipation of something pleasant. This something could be nothing else than the presence of Cristina. Yes, I recognized it with shame; yet in that sad hour it absorbed me more than anything else in the world.

Sabas stopped after a time, took his pipe from his mouth, and, looking at me attentively some moments, remarked solemnly:

"You see how it is, friend Ribot. The madness of my brother-in-law has carried him to the extreme that I have prophesied so many times."

"Poor Emilio!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, poor indeed. At present he hasn't a peseta, nor anybody who will lend him one."

"The worst of all is, according to what has been told me, his illness is very serious."

He found nothing to answer to this. After a while he again took out his pipe and paused.

"Does it seem to you, friend Ribot," he exclaimed in indignant accents, "as if a man with a family has the right to throw away his capital according to his own caprices and reduce that family to destitution?"

I shrugged my shoulders, without knowing what to answer, suspecting that Sabas included himself among the most important members of that suffering family.

He put his pipe back between his teeth, and having, doubtless, thus got himself in connection with his electric current, contrived to move onward. He was not long in interrupting it, by taking out the pipe again, spitting, and going on talking.

"I understand perfectly how a bachelor can dispose of his means as he pleases; how, getting up some morning out of humor, he could go out on the balcony and toss over everything that he owns. At most there is only himself to pay for the consequences of his whims. But when a man who is not alone in the world, who has assumed sacred obligations to fulfil, throws himself into senseless speculations and wastes an important property, his conduct seems to me not merely imprudent, but also immoral."

I did not doubt that Sabas included among these sacred obligations that of providing him with means to submit to his own fascinations all the sopranos and contraltos who presented themselves on the Valencian horizon; and not to say anything impertinent, I determined to hold my peace. In this manner, using his pipe like a manipulator of an electric machine to retard or hasten his fancy, and slopping over in a torrent of critical wisdom, we reached at last the house where his brother-in-law lived. It was not so sumptuous as that in the Calle del Mar, but new and elegant. We mounted to the apartment on the second floor, which was the one that MartÍ occupied, and rang. Regina, the old doncella, came out to open for us, and on seeing me could not refrain from a cry of surprise.

"Oh, Don Julian!"

"Silence!" I exclaimed, putting my finger on my lips.

Next, I seized upon my god-daughter, taking her in my arms and silently covering the child with warm and tender kisses. But she did not receive them in the silence that was to be desired. Frightened by my beard, and perhaps pricked by it, she began at once crying to heaven.

I heard the voice of Cristina.

"Who is there?"

And she appeared from the end of the corridor. On seeing me, she paused for an instant, then immediately came on to me, holding out both hands with an affectionate gesture.

"Oh, Captain! My poor Emilio is dying!"

I saw her eyes cloud with tears. I pressed those beautiful hands that I held, and murmured some words of hope. Perhaps her fears were exaggerated. Emilio had always enjoyed good health; but this sort of temperament bore disease for many years. I asked if it were possible to see him at that hour, and, having been answered affirmatively, made ready to go in. Cristina would not let me enter until she had first prepared him. He was very nervous, and a sudden emotion might injure him. While she was gone to perform this gentle duty, Sabas improved the opportunity to give me his hand, dark as an Asiatic colonial's, in good-by and departed with his energetic characteristic importance. Through the door that still stood open I saw him go down the stairs carrying in his ardent glance desolation and tears for the contralto.

"Come in, come in this minute!" It was the voice of Emilio, a little hoarse, but as vigorous as ever. I hastened towards the place whence came the sound, and entered a room where the luxury of the furniture was in contrast with the modesty of the things in the rest of the place. He was reclining in an arm-chair with two cushions at his back, wearing an elegant dressing-gown. The light of a candle fell on his face, where I could see very clearly the fatal signs of tuberculosis. But that face was beautiful, more beautiful and more interesting than any I had ever seen. The hair of head and beard was longer; this with the whiteness of the skin and the great, black, melancholy eyes made him look like the Nazarene. Those eyes shone at sight of me with a frank and cordial expression. He took my hand and, pressing it affectionately between his own, said several times in a low voice:

"Captain! Captain! Captain! How good you are!"

I found myself too much moved to speak.

"How do you find me? In a very bad way, don't you?" he asked at last, after a long silence.

"I hope I shall see you better soon," I answered, making an effort to control myself and hide the emotion that mastered me.

At the same time I took the candle, and bringing it nearer his face, pretended to examine it with close attention.

"Do you know what ails you?" I asked. "It's morriÑa!"

"What is that?" he asked, opening his eyes wide.

"It is an illness that attacks the Galicians when they lose an amount exceeding fifty centimos."

I saw a smile steal over his lips and, glancing gayly at his wife, he exclaimed:

"The same as ever! He doesn't seem to me a bit changed—no!"

I understood that the kindest thing I could do at that moment was to go on joking. I plucked up my courage and unlocked my stock of buffooneries, although they can't be called very witty. Soon I had the pleasure of hearing him laugh heartily. His face brightened, his eyes shone; in a few minutes we were chatting together with the same gayety as if he were perfectly well and had not lost a centimo of his capital.

Cristina watched us with a melancholy smile. She was happy in seeing her husband so cheerful, although she knew that this could not last long.

And, indeed, a violent attack of coughing soon came to interrupt most sadly our chat. He became livid and half-stifled, holding his head between his hands.

"The chill of the night air is bad for you. It is the chill of night that brought it on, Emilio," said Cristina. "It is time for you to go to rest."

He lifted his hand, making lively signs of negation with it. When the attack subsided, and he could speak, he exclaimed:

"No, don't take him away from me! I feel much better. The captain is a mouthful of oxygen. He brings me the good sea air."

I stayed half an hour longer, to please him. At last I went, not before promising to return early the next day. I did not wish to go in that night to pay my respects to DoÑa Amparo. I had already had notice from Sabas that she had taken up a fashion lately of fainting away at sight of any friend whatsoever. As the hour seemed to me unseasonable for such an organic phenomenon, I deferred it until another more suitable.

Cristina came with me to the door.

"How do you find him?" she asked, fixing an anxious look upon me.

"I don't find him well. But while there is life, who knows? who knows?"

Nobody could help knowing. She also knew; but the unhappy lady sought some way to hide the truth from herself.

I went away with my head in a whirl, and my heart torn and rent. The force I had used to appear cheerful upset my nerves, and I could not sleep. Poor MartÍ! Never had he seemed to me more hearty, more innocent, more worthy to be beloved. Not one word, not the most insignificant allusion to the treacherous actions of his friend Castell, nor the inhuman manner in which he had ruined him. And in the days following it was the same. His soul not only knew how to avoid filth like the feet of ladies, but did not believe in it.

I wrote to our shipping house to say that, for reasons of health, I wished to stay on land during the next voyage, and constituted myself companion and nurse to my unfortunate friend. I was seldom away from him. When I left him I saw a sadness in his eyes so sincere that I wished to stay. Every day he lost strength; I saw that he grew constantly weaker. He began to have cruel stiflings that threatened his life. While they lasted I fanned him, and Cristina bathed his temples. But when he came out of these attacks like a man who has succeeded in escaping an imminent peril and unexpectedly finds himself safe and sound, he would be talkative and gay, assuring us that very soon he would be able to go out into the streets and take up his business again.

His business! Neither illness nor ruin had been able to uproot his passion for projects and his liking for great industrial enterprises.

"If you could guess, Captain, the idea which I have had for days in my head!" he said to me once, looking at me with his candid eyes and pushing back his hair. "A grand project, and sensible, too, at the same time. At fifteen kilometres from Valencia there is a river that can be made to produce a waterfall of a thousand horse-power. Suppose that two hundred are lost in harnessing it, there would still be eight hundred, which, well distributed, would move almost all the industries of the city and give light to it all. Manufacturers and the city would save an enormous amount, and to become the owner of that waterfall would be a brilliant stroke of business. Because, as you can see——"

Here he took a paper, drew out a pencil, and set himself to scheming with figures with as much enthusiasm as if the operatives were already installing the great electric machine that was to distribute power to all the factories of Valencia, with so many horse-power and such and such qualities as if he had the magazine in the house.

Cristina and I exchanged a look over his head, and we knew not what to say. Formerly this passion had been his peril. Now it seemed to console him. So, not to go against him, we followed his fancy, and praised his project to the skies. This made him so happy that his cheeks burned and his glassy eyes shone with pleasure. Cristina could not control her emotion, and hastily left the room. I went on admiring the project warmly, so that he would not notice her going, and went so far as to promise to invest my small capital in the enterprise. With this his gayety came to an end. Quickly changing his expression, he pressed my hand, and, looking at me sorrowfully, exclaimed:

"No, Ribot, no! Although the affair is all plain enough, there might be some bad luck. I will not risk your capital!"

"There would not be any risk," I replied; "I would gladly put it in, because it seems to me that this is a sure thing."

"Absolutely sure!" he said, with the accent of unquenchable conviction, which at another time would have made me smile. "But I won't give you any shares in it until it is under way and has begun to pay dividends."

Poor MartÍ! He was going fast. His cheeks fell in, the circles under his eyes grew deeper; he passed his nights in coughing and his days in torment between pain and choking.

The fainting fits of DoÑa Amparo grew constantly more frequent and prolonged. Her sensibility became so over-excited by this, that the fluttering of a butterfly was enough to throw her into a convulsion, from which she could only recover by covering everybody's face, as of old, with tears and kisses. As for me, being the friend most often at hand, I received the greater part of these inundations.

Sabas came every day at eleven o'clock, before going for his usual promenade to the cafÉ where he took his vermouth. If the doctor had said that the invalid had less fever (and he often said it to encourage him), this gave our dandy so much satisfaction that he could not do less than celebrate by going to breakfast at the cafÉ, and then go off on an excursion with friends of both sexes.

We saw the end approaching. As the fatal hour drew near, Emilio showed himself less and less apprehensive, occupying himself constantly with making calculations and planning out new schemes. Even in the middle of the night he would beg for paper, and scratch down figures.

"Next week I think I shall be able to be out," he said to me one morning. "There is nothing ailing me now. The pain in the kidneys is all gone; my tongue is almost clean. If this cough that keeps me awake would only leave me, I should be quite well. To-day I feel just like walking, like taking a good long walk."

And he proved his words by getting up from his chair and taking several steps.

"I am going to the dining-room," he said, opening the door; "see what a surprise I am going to give Cristina."

And he walked down the passage. I stood looking at him from the threshold of his room. When he had got about half-way, the poor fellow toppled, and before I could get to him, fell his length upon the floor. Several years have passed since then, and yet they have not been able to obscure in my soul the shamed and melancholy smile he gave me as I came to him.

"That's bad, Captain!"

I lifted him and carried him in my arms back to his chair. He weighed no more than a child. Cristina, as well as I, reproved his imprudence, but we readily convinced him that his weakness came from lack of nourishment. If he would eat more his strength would increase rapidly, and we should soon see him able to walk out in the garden as of old.

Although Cristina knew the seriousness of his condition, and made herself no illusions regarding the outcome, I observed in her a sort of ignorance or disregard which, at such a time, could not fail to make me anxious. She thought certainly that his illness was unto death, but by every word that came from her mouth I perceived that she judged the end to be very far off. I could see that it was very near. And yet it was nearer than even I supposed. On the day following his fall in the passage, I went to see him between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. Contrary to his custom, he had not dressed. He said he found himself a little fatigued from coughing. I cheered him up by calling him only lazy, and sat down beside him. I found him indeed very feeble, and looking very much discouraged. In spite of this he was chatty and cheerful as always. At last he decided to get up, but before doing so we decided that he should take a little cup of broth to give him strength. Cristina went out to prepare it. A few moments after, the sick man had an attack of coughing and choking that nearly overcame him. I did not call Cristina, not wishing to alarm her, and began to fan him, as usual, to give him air, hoping that he would quickly recover. Yet, without knowing why, I felt more disturbed than usual. My heart beat violently, seeing that pallid face, with its closed eyes and the opened mouth struggling for breath. As the seconds went by, my anxiety increased in like measure, and I reached my hand towards the bell-button. But at that moment MartÍ opened his eyes and smiled sweetly. I calmed myself and said:

"Now you are better! It has passed."

"Open the shutters. I can't see well," he answered me. These words brought back my alarm. The shutters were open. Yet I made a movement to go, to please him; but as I tried to leave him, he seized one of my hands.

"Ribot, Ribot!" he cried, gazing at me with sightless eyes. "Do not leave me! I am dying, do not leave me!"

He raised up, convulsively grasping my hand. His expression changed quickly, his eyes glazed. His head rolled about as if it would be disjointed, then he fell heavily backward. Horror and stupefaction kept me a moment stunned, gazing at the floor. But recovering myself, I took his head between my hands and held it against my breast, crying:

"MartÍ! my friend, my brother! Canst thou hear? In this world of treachery there are few men left like thee!"

And I kissed that brow where had never fallen the shadow of a sinful thought.

At that moment a hand touched my shoulder. I turned as if it had stabbed me and saw her eyes straining wide with terror and her trembling form that fell prone upon the ground.