In about half an hour the duke reposed, suffering, but relieved.
In lieu of marks of contempt and fear, Stein received from the duke’s friends congratulations and the most lively expressions of esteem and admiration; the good doctor, restored to his natural modesty and timidity, replied politely to all.
But do you know who “took a bath of roses?” it was Maria.
“Did I not tell you so?” she incessantly repeated to all the sportsmen, “did I not tell you so?”
The duke’s friends, entirely tranquillized, went to attend the prayers about to be offered up. The invalid had demanded to be left alone, under the care of his excellent doctor, his old friend as he called him, and sent away nearly all his servants.
In this way the duke and his doctor could renew their acquaintance at their ease. The first was one of those men of a character, elevated, and but little material, with whom neither habit the attachment injured his physical well-being; one of those privileged beings who knew how to come down to the level of circumstances, not by a start or caprice, but constantly, by an energetic nature, and by a firm will, an impenetrable breastplate of iron, which may be symbolized in these words—“What matters it?” His was one of those hearts which beat under the armor of the fifteenth century, and the traces of which cannot now be met with except in Spain.
Stein related his campaigns, his misadventures, his arrival at the convent, his love, and his marriage.
The duke listened with much interest; and the recital gave him a great desire to know Marisalada, the fisherman, and the cabin which Stein preferred to a palace. Thus, on the occasion of his first going out, he directed his walk, accompanied by his doctor, to the sea-coast. Spring had commenced, and the freshness of the breeze, the pure breath of the immense element, lent its charm to their pilgrimage. The fort of St. Cristobal appeared to be ornamented with a green crown, in honor of the noble personage in regard to whom it is presented for the first time. The flowers which covered the roof of the cabin, real garden of Semiramis, crowded against each other, were agitated by the zephyrs, and resembled timid young girls who have love whispered in their ears. The sea, beautiful and calm, wafted its waves just to the feet of the duke, as if they would bid him welcome. The lark careering through space sent forth his sweet and faint notes, until he was lost to sight. The duke, a little fatigued, seated himself on a piece of rock: he was poetic, and he silently enjoyed the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly was heard a voice, simple and melancholy. The duke, surprised, looked at Stein. The doctor sighed. The voice continued to be heard.
“Stein,” said the duke to him, “are these sirens on the waves or angels in the air?”
Stein, as his response, took his flute, and repeated the same melancholy strain. Then the duke saw approaching, half running, half leaping, a young woman, who stopped suddenly on perceiving him.