"He'll turn up, my dear," said Captain Faulks; "you'll see. He was not saved from drowning to die by a Russian rope. Wait; he'll weather the storm."
Mariquita would shake her head hopelessly and go about her appointed task with an unflagging but despairing diligence that was touching to see.
Uncle Barto, as he always wished her to call him, was the first to tell her the good news.
"He's found, my dear. What did I tell you? They couldn't keep him; I knew that."
"The Holy Virgin be praised!" cried Mariquita. "But is he well—uninjured? When shall we see him?"
"Soon, my dear, soon. He will be brought—I mean he will come on board in a few days now."
A simple pressure of the hand, a half-whispered exclamation of joy in her own fluent Spanish, was the only greeting that Mariquita gave her wounded lover when they lifted him on to the deck of the hospital-ship. But the vivid blush that mantled in her cheek, and the glad light that came into her splendid eyes, showed how much she had suffered, and how great was her emotion at this moment of trial.
As for Stanislas, he was nearly speechless with surprise.
"You here, Mariquita! What strange adventure is this? Tell me at once—"
"No, no," interposed the doctor; "it is a long story. You are tired now, and will have plenty of time to hear from Miss Hidalgo all about herself."