Qui commandez aux flots,
Écoutez la prière
Des pauvres matelots.”
It came back to him now, with the translation she had also taught him to say. He found peace and comfort in it, as if Teresa herself were bidding him to hold fast to his courage:
“God all powerful, our Father,
Thou Who commandest the sea,
Listen to the prayer
Of the poor mariners.”
The first significant sound to catch his listening ear was the excited bleating of the goats tethered almost over his head. Nothing else than the return of Palacio could make them so suddenly vocal. A delay while he found his lantern, and the weary messenger came stumbling through the cellar, shouting to ask if Ricardo was alive and well. It was hard to find out what news he brought. There was no word in writing from Señor Ramon Bazán, and Palacio’s long narrative was poured out in Spanish so tumultuous that it meant very little to his guest.
It had something to do with a pile of wood and a mule and a muchacho. This much was picked out of the jumble. In Palacio’s croaking accents was also a violent distrust of the manners, morals, and motives of the aged Señor Bazán. Having simmered down, he made it comprehensible that Ricardo was to make ready to go at once, pronto, into Cartagena by night. Means had been provided. Much distraught, Palacio toddled to his hut to find and offer a patched tarpaulin cape and a new peaked straw hat woven by himself. He had already washed and mended Cary’s tattered shirt and trousers.