“But, my dear,” said Don Alonso humbly, “do not you see that they must....” But he could not finish his sentence, for Doña Francisca, whose cup of wrath and grief was overflowing, proceeded to apostrophize all the potentates of the earth.
“You—” she exclaimed, “anything and everything seems right in your eyes, if only it is to benefit those blessed ships of war. And who, I say, who is the demon from hell who has ordered land forces on board ship? You need not tell me.—It is Buonaparte’s doing. No Spaniard would have concocted such an infernal plot. Go and tell them that you are just going to be married. Come now,” she added, turning to her husband, “write to Gravina and tell him that this young man cannot join the squadron.” Then, seeing that her husband only shrugged his shoulders, she cried:
“He is of no use whatever! Mercy on me! If only I wore trousers I would be off to Cadiz and stop there till I had got you out of this mess.”
Rosita said not a word. I who was watching her narrowly perceived how agitated she was. She never took her eyes off her lover, and if it had not been for good manners and to keep up her dignity, she would have cried and sobbed loudly to relieve the grief that was almost suffocating her.
“The soldier,” said Don Alonso, “is the slave of duty, and our young friend is required by his country to serve on board ship in her defence. He will gain glory in the impending struggle, and make his name famous by some great deed which history will record as an example to future generations.”
“Oh yes—this, that and the other!” said Doña Francisca mimicking the pompous tone in which her husband had made this speech. “We know—and all for what? To humor those ne’er-do-weels at Madrid. Let them come themselves to fire the cannons, and fight on their own account!—And when do you start?”
“To-morrow morning. My leave is cut short and I am under orders to proceed at once to Cadiz.”
It would be impossible to describe the look that came into my young mistress’s face as she heard these words. The lovers looked at each other, and a long and mournful silence fell after this announcement of Malespina’s immediate departure.
“But this is not to be borne!” exclaimed Doña Francisca. “They will be calling out the peasantry next—and the women too, if the whim takes them. Lord of Heaven!” she went on looking up to the ceiling with the glare of a pythoness, “I do not fear to offend Thee by saying: Curses on the inventor of ships—Curses on all who sail in them, and Curses on the man who made the first cannon, with its thunder that is enough to drive one mad, and to be the death of so many poor wretches who never did any harm!”
Don Alonso looked at the young officer, expecting to read some protest in his face against these insults to the noble science of gunnery. Then he said: