“Your grandmother,” replied Don Modesto, “loves her much, and never calls her any thing but Marisalada (witty Maria), on account of her piquant frolics, the grace of her song and her dance, and her beautiful imitation of the singing of birds.”
“It is not that,” replied Momo. “It is because that her father is a fisherman, and brings us salt and fish.”
“And does she live near the port?” asked Stein, whose curiosity was much excited by all these details.
“Very near,” replied the commandant. “Pedro Santalo possessed a bark: having made sail for Cadiz he encountered a tempest, and was shipwrecked on our coast. All perished, crew and cargo, with the exception of Pedro and his daughter, whom he had with him; the desire to save her doubled his strength: he gained the shore, but his ruin was complete. His sadness and discouragement were so profound that he would not return to his country. With the debris of his bark he constructed a little skiff among the rocks, and commenced as a fisherman. It was he who furnished the convent with fish: the brothers in exchange gave him bread, oil, and vinegar. It is now twelve years that he has lived here in peace with all the world.”
This recital finished when they had arrived at a point where the paths divide into two roads.
“I will return soon,” said the old commandant; “in an instant I will be at your disposal, and salute your hosts.”
“Say to Gaviota,” cried Momo, “that her illness does not alarm me, bad weeds never die.”
“Has the commandant been long at Villamar?” asked Stein of Momo.
“Let me count—a hundred and one years before the birth of my father.”
“And who is this Rosita, his hostess?’