Don Roderigo Ponce de Leon had settled his affairs in Buenos Aires, and shaking off the dust from his feet, was on his way to Europe; rending asunder the liens which bound him to the country of his adoption, he turned himself again to the country which had given him birth, determined to devote the rest of his life to her service. But he went not alone, with him went his wife and daughter, and he said to himself that he had yet a son left, who, uninfected with the heresies of the present age, was still a loyal child of Spain. Yet as the moment of departure drew nigh his heart yearned towards the son who had at one time been his pride, his anger towards him melted away, and forcing himself to forget the present and the immediate past, he talked only to him of the future; talked to him of the day when Ferdinand of Bourbon, reinstated on the throne of Spain, should re-establish his authority over his subjects in America who yet acknowledged their allegiance to him, and, grateful for their past loyalty and devotion, should forgive their present disloyalty to Spain.
Side by side he and Marcelino paced the deck together. Marcelino, deeply grateful for the love his father yet displayed to him, seizing eagerly at any topic of conversation in which he could agree with him, and speaking confidently of the day as not far distant, when Spain and her colonies should again be united under one sceptre.
"You have forgiven me, my father," said he. "God bless you for it. When you are far away, and in your own country are striving to substitute the will of an entire people for the tyranny of a few, when you establish a cortes at Cadiz, and so direct the valour of a noble people, fighting for rulers in whom they can trust, that this unbroken series of defeats shall be changed into one of victories, till not a Frenchman tread the soil of Spain, then, father, you will do me justice. Buenos Aires is my country, as Spain is yours; what I have done for Buenos Aires you will do for Spain, and under free institutions, Spain and her colonies shall all acknowledge one king."
Then as Don Roderigo answered nothing, but paced the deck with a flush of pride on his face as he thought of down-trodden Spain, and of the future which lay before him, should he contribute to her certain triumph, Marcelino continued:
"You have forgiven me, my father, there is one here to whom you owe no forgiveness, who has never wronged you, and who, if you love me, has every claim upon your love also, for she is your daughter. Father, you have never spoken to Magdalen, she is my wife, and only waits permission to share with me, all the love and respect I have for you. Father, will you not speak to Magdalen? May I not bring her to you, and will you not bless her for my sake if not for her own?"
"Magdalen! Your wife! Yes, let me see her," replied Don Roderigo.
Apart from the others, sitting by Doña Constancia and soothing her sorrow with many gentle words, was Magdalen Miranda, who had already found in Doña Constancia a second mother, and had learned to love her dearly, only to lose her. Marcelino went up to her, and taking her hand in his said:
"Come, Magdalen."
And Magdalen knew why he spoke, for her eyes had followed him wherever he had gone, and her heart was with him in its one hope, that Marcelino's father might yet bless her and call her his daughter ere they parted, never to meet again.