We had breakfasted—the women had wept—Don Ricardo had blown his nose— Aaron Bang had blundered and fidgeted about and the bestias were at the door. We embraced the ladies.
“My son,” said Senora Cangrejo, “we shall most likely never meet again. You have your country to go to—you have a mother. Oh, may she never suffer the pangs which have wrung my heart But I know—I know that she never will.” I bowed. “We may never indeed, in all likelihood we shall never meet again!” continued she, in a rich, deep-toned, mellow voice; “but if your way of life shall ever lead you to Cordova, you will be sure of having many visitors, and many a door will open to you, if you will but give out that you have shown kindness to Maria Olivera, or to any one connected with her.” She wept—and bent over me, pressing both her hands on the crown of my head. “May that great God, who careth not for rank or station, for nation or for country, bless you, my son—bless you!”
All this was sorry work. She kissed me on the forehead, and turned away. Her daughter was standing close to her, “like Niobe, all tears.” “Farewell, Mr Cringle—may you be happy!” I kissed her hand—she turned to the Captain. He looked inexpressible things, and taking her hand, held it to his breast; and then, making a slight genuflection, pressed it to his lips. He appeared to be amazingly energetic, and she seemed to struggle to be released. He recovered himself, however—made a solemn bow——the ladies vanished. We shook hands with old Don Picador, mounted our mules, and bid a last adieu to the Valley of the Hurricane.
We ambled along for some time in silence. At length the skipper dropped astern, until he got alongside of me. “I say, Tom”—I was well aware that he never called me Tom unless he was fou, or his heart was full, honest man—“Tom, what think you of Francesca Cangrejo?”
Oh ho! sits the wind in that quarter? thought I. “Why, I don’t know, Captain—I have seen her to disadvantage—so much misery fine woman though—rather large to my taste—but....”
“Confound your buts,” quoth the Captain. “But, never mind push on, push on.”—I may tell the gentle reader in his ear, that the worthy fellow, at the moment when I send this chapter to the press, has his flag, and that Francesca Cangrejo is no less a personage than his wife.
However, let us get along. “Doctor Pavo Real,” said Don Ricardo,.now since you have been good enough to spare us a day, let us get the heart of your secret out of you. Why, you must have been pretty well frightened on the island there.’
“Never so much frightened in my life, Don Ricardo; that English captain is a most tempestuous man—but all has ended well; and after having seen you to the crossing, I will bid you good-by.”
“Poo—nonsense.” “Come along—here is the English Medico, your brother Esculapius; so, come along, you can return in the morning.” “But the sick folk in Santiago....”
“Will be none the sicker for your absence, Doctor Pavo Real,” responded Don Ricardo.