“Pedro, Don Modesto has already written two letters, and has sent them by the post. They say it is the most sure and prompt way to insure their arrival.”
“She will not come!” murmured the invalid.
“But her husband will come; and, for the moment, that is of the greater importance.”
“She! she!” cried the poor father.
An hour after this conversation Maria set off for the convent, without having been able to decide the obstinate Catalan to let her conduct him to her home. The old woman rode upon Golondrina, the peaceful Dean of the chapter of asses of the country.
Momo, now become a man, without having lost any of his native ugliness, conducted the ass.
“Listen, grandma,” said he; “these visits to the old sea-wolf, will they continue for a long time yet? These daily walks fatigue me.”
“Certainly they will still continue, since Pedro will not come to the convent. I fear for the death of this brave man if he does not see his daughter.”
“I will never die of that disease,” said Momo, with a sardonic laugh.
“Listen, my son,” pursued the old woman; “I have not much confidence in the post, although they say it is sure. Don Modesto has not much faith in it either. Then, that Don Frederico and Marisalada learn of the danger Pedro is now in, there is but one means to employ, and that is that you go to Madrid, and tell them; for indeed we must not remain here with our arms folded, and see the father die calling on his daughter with all his soul, and do nothing to bring her to him.”