"Captain Portlack," said he, "I am in great grief."
"I am sorry to hear it," said I, looking at him.
"My poor wife is mad."
"Mad!" I echoed, in an accent of concern and astonishment, not choosing, by appearing aware of the fact, that he should suspect I had been spying upon him or making inquiries.
"Mad," he repeated, in a low, hoarse voice. "When she recovered from her swoon she did not know me. She began to sing, she laughed—Mother of God, a diabolic laugh! She is now speechless, never lifting her eyes, never changing her countenance, and she sits thus:" he clasped his hands before him, bent his head, fixed his eyes upon the deck, and thus dramatically represented her condition for at least a minute.
I sought in vain in his voice, in his face, in his air, for some hint, some color, some expression of such grief of affection, of such emotion of sorrow, as the love he had spoken of as existing between them would naturally cause one to look for; instead, I seemed to find nothing but alarm, uncertainty, irritability, subdued by fear.
"We must hope," said I, "that she will speedily recover her mind."
"Will you descend into the cabin and see her?" said he, shortly, as though he had talked this invitation over and settled it.
I was slightly startled, and answered, "What good can I do, Don Christoval?"
"You are her countryman," said he; "your accent, that is far purer than mine when I discourse in your tongue, may excite her attention. Nor, perhaps, may it be wholly with her as I fear."