“Come, Pedro!” said Maria, from whose eyes the tears began to flow at the sight of the poor father’s despair; “a man like you, big as a church, a man they believe ready to devour infants uncooked, to be discouraged thus without reason! Come! I see here nothing but what appears solid.”
“Good mother Maria,” replied the fisherman, in a feeble voice, “I count, with this one, five children in their tombs.”
“My God! and why thus lose courage? Remember the saint whose name you bear, and who threw himself into the sea when he had lost the faith which sustained him. I tell you that, with the grace of God, Don Frederico will cure the child in as little time as you could call on Jesus.”
Pedro sadly shook his head.
“How obstinate are these Catalans!” said Maria, with a little anger; and passing before the fisherman, she approached the invalid: “Come, Marisalada, come; rise up, daughter, that this gentleman may examine you.”
Marisalada did not stir.
“Come, my daughter,” repeated the good woman; “you will see that he will cure you as by enchantment.” At these words, she took the girl by the arm, and wished to raise her up.
“I have no desire,” said the invalid, rudely disengaging herself from the hand which held her.
“The daughter is as sweet as the father; ‘he who inherits steals not,’ ” murmured Momo, who appeared at the door.
“It is her illness that renders her impatient,” added the father, to exculpate his child.