‘We count to weigh anchor to-morrow evening,’ replied the old merchant. ‘The freight was long of coming, the mules here being but slow-footed, otherwise we should scarce have tarried so long. Every day brings more and more risk of these accursed pirates, French and English, who so often mar our best ventures.’
‘What! fearful, after the last pair of candlesticks you have bestowed on yonder lady, in her house upon the hill?’
‘Blaspheme not holy things,’ interposed the older man.
‘Oh, I cry thee pardon, good Gull,’ replied the other; ‘I forgot me you had as big a swallow as the rest. Ah, yes, to be sure, Our Lady of the Hill! Verily, a valorous and a venturesome dame. It was a brave device of señors the canons, that last miracle; a most surpassing feat, truly. Here is a blessed image of the blessed Virgin, dressed out as never was doll before; petticoats of cloth of gold, I warrant me, and stiff, absolutely stiff, with diamonds, pearls, rubies, and what not. Well! here comes an English man-of-war into these seas—the “Oxford,” I think, they call her. Bah! how these barbarous names stick in a gentleman’s throat; and so, by misadventure, this man-of-war, this heretical “Ox—Ox—Oxford,” taking fire, no doubt by reason of sparks from—from purgatory, to say the very least of it—this man-of-war blowing up, what say señors the canons? Down rush they from the shrine, all through the city, clamouring, “A miracle! A miracle!” Straightway the most greasy and gullible mob throng to the sanctuary—and what see they there? The Virgin, the doll, that is, in its place behind the altar, but all bemudded, all bedraggled, her gay clothes drenched with salt water, the gold embroidery torn away in flakes, the diamonds, and pearls, and rubies, all dropped and gone from stomacher and skirt; in fact, a very mutilated memorial of her yesterday’s glory. Great ejaculations of surprise and consternation! Mighty invocations to every saint in and out of the calendar! Evidently, a most dread secret, a most mighty mystery—a matter of holy wonder to the faithful!’
‘Don José! Don José!’ interrupted the old man, who had listened very impatiently to this tirade; ‘the tongue is an unruly member. Take heed what you utter. The holy office hath ears which hear afar, and hands which smite afar. Who knows who may be even now listening to you? For my part I would not breathe to myself what you have spoken aloud, even were I alone in a boat fivescore miles from land.’
‘Good Señor Davosa, it is no more your vocation to be fearless, than it is mine to be cowardly,’ replied the brisk gallant. ‘The cobwebs of the holy office were spun to catch blue bottles, man, not hornets. But I must tell you the story out. It is true, man, true, every word of it, as the bills of lading you send with this galleon. The people, then, wondered and worshipped, but could make nothing of the matter. Not so the canons. By the soul of the Cid, but they are dexterous fellows, the holy canons, and they caught the clue to the secret in brief time.’ “See you, my brethren,” said the head of the black cassocked brigands, “see you here. An heretical, a very heretical and damnable ship, called the ‘Oxford,’ hath been clean destroyed by fire, kindled no one knows how. Immediately after, coming to say our early prayers, what find we? This sacred effigy bedraggled and besmirched, as you see. How came this so? My brethren, the thing shall be clear unto you. The burning of the ‘Oxford’ is a very apparent and notable miracle. It was Our Lady’s hand held the torch. In the darkness of the night, when no eye saw it, she left her shrine. Many a league hath she walked over land and sea; as, indeed, the state of her garments may well make clear unto you all. Doubtless she hath scaled great mountains, and crested great waves, going with speed, so as to return by daylight to this her temple. The proof is very clear. The ‘Oxford’ hath perished; Our Lady hath spoiled her clothes; therefore hath Our Lady clean destroyed the ‘Oxford.’” And so, “Ave Maria Purissima,” shout the crowd, grovelling in their credulity. But the best—the very cream of the joke is behind—good Davosa, as thou shalt hear. “Good brethren and faithful,” quoth the chief canon again, “it seemeth clear unto me, that after such a miracle wrought in our favour, the least we can do—I mean you can do—is to restore the gold, and the diamonds, and the pearls, and the rubies, thus spoiled and lost by our good Lady. And look ye, it may well be that you shall thus be clear gainers; for if our Lady had not destroyed the ‘Oxford,’ mayhap the ‘Oxford’ would have destroyed Carthagena, and thus would you have been all clean ruined and undone.” So, “Gloria in Excelsis,” again shouted the poor fleeced mob; and the image is to have new jewels, and the canons to have the old ones, as well they deserved them for their ingenuity.’
And so saying, Don José drank off a full glass of wine, and leaned back, laughing lustily. His comrade arose—
‘That I have listened thus long to you, Don José,’ he said, ‘you owe to personal courtesy, not to any sympathy with your heathenish spirit, so full of unbelief and mockery. Have you any further commands?’
‘No: none—none,’ answered the cavalier, still laughing. ‘But thou knowest, Davosa, that in your heart, man—at the bottom of that cold deep well you call a heart—you are laughing with me in very cordial merriment.’
The old man rose up. ‘If you have no further commands,’ he was beginning, when Don José, who had got upon his feet, and was assuming his rapier and sombrero, while he repeated—‘No—none at all,’ suddenly stopped, and said, laughingly—