The Spaniard looked at me from head to foot, raised his eyebrows, and gave a slight whistle.
‘Truly, a pirate of a most moral breed—he reproves incontinence, he rebukes sin. Most righteous of Buccaneers, thou hast mistaken thy trade. Turn priest, man. Ha! I daresay you heard me tell the story of the diamond and pearls on the Virgin’s petticoat? Behold a career for thee. Get thee to the Cathedral on the Hill. To rob gaping Spaniards in a church is more profitable and more safe than to plunder fighting Spaniards on the sea. Turn priest, man. I warrant thee the rarest hand at the confessional.’
‘Don José,’ I answered, ‘promise me, on your honour, to give up the wicked purpose with which you visit this house. You may then betray me to my enemies, and I swear to you, that not a word of what accidentally I overheard shall pass my lips.’
He turned impetuously to me. ‘You know me not, mariner,’ he cried, vehemently. ‘Your life is safe for me. We Spaniards are not all of us alguazils!—human bloodhounds! Go! You have crossed my path, and chance has given you the advantage. But you have spoken well and acted well. I do not blame you—I think well of you. Once I would myself have done what you have done; nay, perhaps so would I still. But, caramba! Why put myself in a heat about such a trifle. Win her and wear her, man! The stakes are yours.’
Don José took two or three turns from one end of the apartment to the other, I still remaining motionless where I had first addressed him; then suddenly stopping, he said, ‘If ever in future years you visit Madrid, seek me out, and I will be your friend.’
Just then, the Señora Moranté entered. ‘Don José,’ she said, ‘I have looked everywhere for Joseffa, but——’
Here she observed me, and suddenly became silent. Don José went up to her, and took her hand.
‘Señora,’ he said, ‘you will think me fickle, but I have become convinced, that in Joseffa’s hand, should I be fortunate enough to secure it, I should find no heart. The saints would prosper no such union, señora. What I say I have full warrant for believing. Señora, adieu! Here is your persecuted Scotch mariner. Make much of him—he is a leal man and true. I told you that I thought so, now I know it. Adieu, señora. Adieu, my flower of pirates. May Heaven prosper thee! Be moral—and a Buccaneer!’
And so saying, with a reverence the most graceful and profound, Don José stepped gaily from the room. Oh, heart of man, what strange wild tunes thou playest—what discords mingling with and marring thy harmonies—what harmonies mingling with and attuning thy discords! Courteous and rude, paltry and noble, magnanimous and base. A man can be all these in an hour, in a breath, the grandest and the foulest thing in nature!
Now, that I have told at length the strange chances which brought Don José and I face to face so often, and in such curious relations to each other at Carthagena, I would fain pass quickly over the story of my after stay in that city. The history leads to but a sad ending. Often and often, since I left the Spanish main, in rough dark middle watches, as well as in soft and balmy nights, when my ship stole through a waveless and shining sea, have I flown in fancy back to those bright days of hope and love—often have I meditated and pondered, until the very image of Joseffa has seemed to waver in the air and smile upon me, until the well-remembered tones of her voice have sounded audibly in mine ear amid the dash of waves, or the rustle of the swelling canvas. Sometimes crouching alone in the rocking top, with straining ropes and surging sails around me, I have peopled that airy platform with the household of the old merchant’s dwelling at Carthagena. The señora Moranté has pleaded with me, urging me that I should abandon my heresies and become a true son of the ancient church—the prating Martin has told his visions of angels and of saints, and Joseffa—Joseffa, who wore the token of our love upon her heaving heart, has looked up with her dark eyes and her smiling lips into my face.