‘Tell me but his name,’ I would say; ‘bring me but face to face with him; I ask no more.’
But she would reply, ‘Be tranquil, Leonard! You have my heart. My mother loves me well, and it pleases her to nurse herself in fancies which can never turn to reality. Before you arrived here, a ship sailed hence to Spain; she must be now upon the ocean again, with her bows hitherward. When that ship sails a second time, I trust well that my mother’s eyes will be opened, and that what is now passing will be remembered but as an idle cloud, which hath come and gone.’
But I was not satisfied. And so I applied very earnestly to Martin, professing to consult him as to a vision with which the saints had blessed me, touching the wedding favoured of St. Gieronimo. All I could obtain from the old man was, that the cavalier, for certain private reasons, wished that his visits should be kept secret until the nuptials had actually been arranged.
Now, all this appeared to me a most strange and needless complication of a simple matter, and, calling to mind certain words of Joseffa, I could not help wondering whether the cavalier held the same language to the mother as to the daughter. The allusions to the persecution which Joseffa was undoubtedly undergoing, out of deference to her mother’s foibles and prejudices, coming probably to an end when a certain vessel sailed for Spain, would seem to imply that in that vessel would also sail her tormentor; and, pondering upon this circumstance, a thought suddenly flashed upon me, which made me certain I had caught a clue to the mystery. As all this came up into my mind, my brow flushed and my blood boiled.
‘Come what may of it,’ I swore, ‘the next time that this man crosses the threshold, ’tis I who will receive him.’ I hided my time warily and well. I watched; I lay in wait; not a motion of the old steward or of the señora but I followed; and the next day I had my will. I knew the mysterious suitor was in the house. I knew that the señora had gone to summon her daughter, who, I also knew, would be long of coming. Therefore, gathering up body and soul for the interview, as I had done once before for the torture, I burst hurriedly into the withdrawing room, and saw there, dangling his bonnet and playing with his sword-knot, the man I had expected to see—Don José!
Making a great effort, I composed myself, and stood firm, looking at him, but not daring to allow my tongue to utter a sound. On his side, Don José showed not the slightest emotion, only a dark shadow seemed for a moment to pass over his face, but it went almost as soon as it had come; and then, stepping up to me, he said, in such a frank, open fashion, that I could hardly believe my ears:
‘Hey, my old friend, the Scots Mariner! I am heartily glad to see thee again. I knew that thou hadst found refuge in this very hospitable mansion. And so, friend, thou hast doubled both upon blood-hound and alcaide. It was very well done, man. I gave thee a good character to the Señora Moranté, and I hope it hath availed thee. But indeed the ladies lately told me, that thou wert still here, behaving thyself most reasonably, for a pirate and a heretic—nay, that, in sooth, thou wert getting to be quite a favourite. A rare time for thee, Friend Buccaneer. How wilt thou like sea-fare and sea-company, after such an interlude?’
‘Don José,’ said I, speaking in a low and tremulous voice, for very passion; ‘it were best that you leave this house.’
‘Truly, friend,’ replied the cavalier—‘you are the least hospitable person within it. What may be the meaning, I pray, of a recommendation, which, in thy mouth, I find somewhat singular?’
‘Don José,’ I replied, ‘you have saved my life. It is now in your hands again. I am a rough, untutored mariner, not skilled in your courtly ironical phrase,—I say again, you must leave this house, or I will drive you from it—you may return with officers and alguazils, but at any rate, you will not return in the character which now you falsely pretend to.’