The boy's smile reappeared. He told with pride of the punishment he had

taken from his father without uttering a cry. It was his father who was

beating him, and a father could chastise because he loved his children;

but should anyone else try to beat him, that person was doomed! As he

said this he straightened himself with the belligerent air of a race

accustomed to seeing blood flow and to administering justice with their

own hands. Pep talked of taking his son back to the Seminary, but the

boy put no faith in this threat. He would not go, even if his father

tried to fulfill his vow of binding him with ropes and taking him on the

back of a donkey like a sack of wheat; rather than that he would run

away to the mountains or to the rock of Vedra and live with the wild

goats.

The master of Can Mallorqui had planned the future of his children

high-handedly, with the energy of a rustic who gives no thought to

obstacles when he believes he is doing right. Margalida should marry a

peasant-farmer, and the house and land should be his. Pepet should be a

priest, which would represent social ascension for the family, honor and

fortune for them all.

Jaime smiled as he listened to the boy's protests against his fate.

There was no other center of learning on the island than the Seminary,

and the peasants and shipowners who desired for their children a better

fortune than their own, enrolled them there. The priests of Iviza! What

an incongruous class! Many of them, while carrying on their studies, had

taken part in the courtings, using knife and pistol. Descendants of

corsairs and of soldiers, when they donned the cassock they still

retained the arrogance and the rude virility of their forefathers. They

were not lacking in piety, for their simplicity of mind did not permit

of this, but neither were they devout and austere; they loved life with

all its sweetness, and were attracted by danger with inherited

enthusiasm. The island turned out hardy and venturesome priests. Those

who remained in Spain became army chaplains. Others, more bold, no

sooner had they sung their first mass than they embarked for South

America, where certain republics boasting a large Catholic aristocracy

were the Eldorado of Spanish priests who had no fear of the sea. They

sent home generous sums of money to their families, and they bought

houses and lands, praising God, who maintains his priests in greater

ease in the new world than in the old. There were charitable senoras in

Chile and Peru who gave a hundred pesos as a gratuity for a single mass.

Such news made their relatives, gathered in the kitchen on winter

nights, open their mouths in amazement. Despite such greatness, however,

their most fervent desire was to return to the beloved isle, and after a

few years they did so with the intention of ending their days on their

own lands; but the demon of modern life had bitten deep into their

hearts; they wearied of the monotonous insular existence, with its

narrow limitations; they could not forget the new cities on the other

continent, and finally they sold their property, or gave it to their

family, and sailed away to return no more.

Pep was indignant at the obstinacy of his son, who insisted upon

remaining a peasant. He blustered about killing him, as if the boy were

on the road to perdition. The son of his friend Treufoch had sent almost

six thousand dollars home from America; another priest who lived in the

interior among the Indians, in some very high mountains called the

Andes, had bought a farm in Iviza that his father was now cultivating;

and this rascal Pepet, who was more quick at letters than any of these,

refused to follow such glorious examples! He ought to be killed!

The night before, during a moment of calm, while Pep was resting in the

kitchen with the weary arm and the sad mien of the father who has been

wielding a heavy hand, the youth, rubbing his bruises, had proposed a

compromise. He would become a priest; he would obey Senor Pep; but he

wanted to be a man for a while first, to go out serenading with the

other boys of the parish, go to the Sunday dances, join in the

courtings, have a sweetheart, and wear a knife in his belt. This last

desire was greatest of all. If his father would only give him his

grandfather's knife he would put up with anything.

"Grandfather's knife, father!" implored the boy. "Grandfather's knife!"

For his grandfather's knife he would become a priest, and even if

necessary live in solitude, on the alms of the people, as did the

hermits on the seashore in the sanctuary of Cubells. As he thought of

the venerable weapon his eyes glowed with admiration, and he described

it to Febrer. A jewel! It was an antique steel blade, keen and

burnished. He could cut through a coin with it, and in his grandfather's

hands----! His grandfather had been a man of renown, a famous man. Pepet

had never seen him, but he talked of him with admiration, giving him a

higher place in his esteem than that evoked by his mediocre father.

Then, spurred on by his desire, he ventured to implore Don Jaime's

assistance. If only he would help him! If he should ask just once for

the famous knife his father would immediately hand it to him.

"You shall have the knife, my boy. If your father won't give you that

one, I'll buy one for you the next time I go to the city," said Febrer

good-naturedly.

This filled the Little Chaplain with joy. It was necessary for him to go

armed so that he could mingle with men. His house was soon to be visited

by the bravest youths of the island. Margalida was now a woman, and the

courting was going to begin. Senor Pep had been besieged by the young

gallants, who demanded that he set the day and the hour for the suitors.

"Margalida!" cried Febrer in surprise. "Margalida to have sweethearts!"

The spectacle he had witnessed in so many other houses on the island

seemed to him an absurdity for Can Mallorqui. He had not realized that

Pep's daughter was a woman. Could that child, that pretty, white doll,

really care for men? He felt the strange sensation of the father who has

loved many women in his youth, but who, later in life, judging by his

own lack of susceptibility, cannot understand his daughter's fondness

for men.

After a few moments of silence Margalida seemed changed in his eyes.

Yes, she was a woman. The transformation pained him; he felt that he

had lost something dear to him, but he resigned himself to reality.

"How many suitors are there?" he asked in a low voice.

Pepet waved one hand while at the same time he raised his eyes to the

vaulted ceiling of the tower. How many? He was not sure yet; at least

thirty. It was going to be such a courting as would make talk all over

the island, despite the fact that many, although they devoured Margalida

with their eyes, were afraid to join the courting, giving themselves up

for conquered in advance. There were few like his sister on the island;

trim, merry, and with a good slice of dowry, too, for Senor Pep let it

be known everywhere that he intended leaving Can Mallorqui to his

son-in-law when he died. And his son might burst with his cassock on his

back over there on the other side of the ocean, without ever seeing any

girls but Indian squaws! Futro!

However, his indignation soon passed. He became enthusiastic thinking

about the young men who were to gather at his house twice a week to make

love to Margalida. They were coming even from as far away as San Juan,

the other end of the island, the region of valiant men, where one

avoided going out of the house after dark, well knowing that every

hillock held a pistol and every tree was a lurking place for a firearm.

They were capable, every man of them, of waiting for satisfaction for an

injury committed years before--the home of the terrible "wild beasts of

San Juan." Then, too, various notables would come from the other

sections of the island, and many of them must walk leagues to reach Can

Mallorqui.

The Little Chaplain rejoiced at the thought of the arrogant youths with

whom he was to become acquainted. They would all treat him like a chum

because he was the brother of the bride to be; but of all these future

friendships the one which most flattered him was that of Pere, nicknamed

Ferrer, on account of his trade as an ironworker, a man about thirty,

much talked about in the parish of San Jose.

The boy looked upon him as a great artist. When he condescended to work

he made the most beautiful pistols ever seen on the field of Iviza. Old

barrels were sent to him from the Peninsula, and he mounted them to suit

his fancy in stocks engraved with barbaric design, adding to the work

ornate decorations of silver. A weapon of his make could be loaded to

the muzzle without danger of bursting.

A still more important circumstance increased his respect for Ferrer. He

declared in a low voice, with a tone of mystery and respect, "Ferrer is

a verro."

A verro! Jaime was silent for a few moments, trying to coordinate his

recollection of island customs. An expressive gesture from the Little

Chaplain assisted his memory. A verro was a man whose valor was already

demonstrated, one who has several proofs of the power of his hand, or

the accuracy of his aim, rotting in the earth.

That his kindred might not seem beneath Ferrer, Pepet recalled his

grandfather's prowess. He had also been a verro, but the ancients knew

how to do things better. The skill with which the grandfather settled

his affairs was still remembered in San Jose; a stab with his famous

knife, and his well-laid plans sufficed, for people were always found

who were ready to swear they had seen him at the other end of the island

at the very moment when his enemy lay writhing in mortal agony far

away.

Ferrer was a less fortunate verro. He had returned six months ago after

having spent eight years in a prison on the Peninsula. He had been

sentenced to fourteen, but he had received various exemptions. His

reception was triumphal. A native of San Jose was returning from heroic

exile! They must not fall behind the citizens of other parishes who

received their verros with great demonstrations, and on the day of the

arrival of the steamer even the most distant relatives of Ferrer, who

composed half the town, went down to the port of Iviza to meet him, and

the other half went out of pure patriotism. Even the alcalde joined in

the expedition, followed by his secretary, to retain the sympathy of his

political partisans. The gentlemen of the city protested with

indignation at these barbaric and immoral customs of the peasantry,

while men, women, and children assaulted the steamer, each striving to

be first to press the hero's hand.

Pepet described the verro's reception on his return to San Jose. He had

been a member of the party, with its long line of carts, horses,

donkeys, and pedestrians, looking as if an entire people were

emigrating. The procession halted at every tavern and inn along the way,

and the great man was regaled with jugs of wine, tid-bits of roasted

sausage and glasses of figola, a liquor made of native herbs. They

admired his new suit, a suit suggesting the fine senor which had been

made to his order on leaving the penitentiary; they inwardly marveled at

his ease of manner, at the princely and condescending air with which he

greeted his old friends. Many of them envied him. What wonderful things

a man learns when he leaves the island! There is nothing like travel!

The former ironworker overwhelmed them all with boasts of his adventures

on his homeward voyage. For several weeks thereafter the evening

gatherings in the tavern were most interesting. The words of the verro

were repeated from house to house throughout all the little homes

scattered through the cuarton, every peasant finding some luster for his

parish in these adventures of his fellow citizen.

The Ironworker never wearied of praising the beauty of the penal

establishment in which he had spent eight years. He forgot the misery

and hardship he had endured there; he looked back upon it with that love

for the past which colors one's recollections.

He had been more fortunate than those poor wretches who are sent to the

penitentiary on the plains of La Mancha, where the men have to carry up

the water on their backs, suffering the torments of an Arctic cold.

Neither had he been in the prisons of old Castile where snow whitens the

courtyards and sifts in through the barred windows. He came from

Valencia, from the penitentiary of Saint Michael of the Kings, "Niza,"

as it was nicknamed by the habitual pensioners of these establishments.

He spoke with pride of this house, just as a wealthy student recalls the

years he has spent in an English or German university. Tall palm trees

shaded the courtyards, their crested tops waving above the tiled roofs;

standing in the window-grilles one could see extensive orchards, with

the triangular white pediments of the farmhouses, and farther out

stretched the Mediterranean, an immense blue expanse, behind which lay

his native rock, the beloved isle; perhaps the breeze, laden with the

salt smell and with the fragrance of vegetation, which filtered like a

benediction through the malodorous cells of the penitentiary, had first

passed over it. What more could a man desire! Life there was sweet; one

dined regularly, and always had a hot meal; everything was orderly, and

a man had only to obey and allow himself to be led. One made

advantageous friendships; one associated with people of note, whom he

would never have met had he remained on the island, and the Ironworker

told of his friends with pride. Some had possessed millions, and had

ridden in luxurious carriages there in Madrid, an almost fantastic city

whose name rung in the ears of the islanders like that of Bagdad to the

poor Arab of the desert listening to the tales of the "Thousand and One

Nights;" others had overrun half the world before misfortune shut them

up in this enclosure. Surrounded by an absorbed circle, the verro

recounted the adventures of these associates in the lands of the

negroes, or in countries where men were yellow, or green, and wore long

womanish braids. In that ancient convent, as large as a town, dwelt the

salt of the earth. Some of them had girded on swords and commanded men;

others had been accustomed to handling papers bearing great seals and

had interpreted the law. Even a priest had been a cell-companion of the

Ironworker!

The verro's admirers heard him with wide-open eyes and nostrils

palpitating with emotion. What joy! To be a verro, to have gained

celebrity and respect by killing an enemy in the darkness of night, and,

as a recompense, eight years in "Niza," a place of honor and delight.

How they envied such good luck!

The Little Chaplain, who had listened to these tales, felt a great and

enduring respect for the verro. He described the particulars of his

person with the detail of one enamored of a hero.

He was neither as tall nor as strong as the senor; he would scarcely

come up to Don Jaime's ear, but he was agile, and nobody surpassed him

in the dance: he could dance whole hours until he tired out every girl

in the parish. From his long season at the prison he had returned with a

pale and waxy complexion, the complexion of a cloistered nun; but now he

was dark like everybody else, with his face bronzed and tanned by the

sea air and the African sun of the island. He lived in the mountain, in

a hut at the edge of the pine woods near the charcoal-makers, who

supplied fuel for his forge. This he did not light every day. With his

pretensions at being an artist, he worked only when he had to repair a

fire-lock, to transform a flintlock into a rifle, or to make one of

those silver decorated pistols which were the admiration of the Little

Chaplain.

The boy hoped that this man would be his sister's choice; that the

verro, with his astonishing skill, would become a member of his family.

"Maybe Margalida will like him, and then Ferrer will give me one of his

pistols. What do you think, Don Jaime?"

He plead the verro's cause as if he were already a relative. The poor

fellow lived so wretchedly, alone in his shop with no other companion

than an old woman always dressed in the black garb of long-past

mourning; one of her eyes was watery, the other was shut. She would blow

the bellows while her nephew hammered the red-hot iron. Ever working

around the fire, she grew more bony and thin each day; the hollows of

her eyes seemed to be turning into liquid in her old face, which was

wrinkled like a withered apple.

That gloomy, smoky den in the pine forest would be embellished by

Margalida's presence. Its only decorations at present were a few small,

colored rush baskets woven in the shape of checker-boards, adorned with

silk pompons, a friendly token from the unfamed artists who whiled away

the time in their retreat in "Niza." When his sister should live at the

forge Pepet would go to see her, and he counted on acquiring through the

munificence of his brother-in-law, a knife as famous as his

grandfather's, that is, if Senor Pep unjustly persevered in refusing him

this glorious heritage.

The recollection of his father seemed to cloud the boy's hopes. He

realized how difficult it would be for the master of Can Mallorqui to

accept the Ironworker as a son-in-law; the old man could say no ill of

him; he acknowledged his fame as an honor to the town. The island not

only had brave men in "the wild beasts of San Juan," but San Jose could

also gloat over valiant youths who had undergone trying tests; Ferrer,

however, was little skilled in agricultural affairs, and although all

the Ivizans showed themselves equally predisposed to cultivating the

soil, to casting a net into the sea, or to landing a cargo of smuggled

goods, along with other little industries, skipping easily from one kind

of work to another, he desired for his daughter a genuine farmer, one

accustomed all his life to scrabbling the earth. His resolution was

unbreakable. In his empty and inflexible brain, when an idea sprouted it

became so firmly imbedded that no hurricane nor cataclysm could uproot

it. Pepet should be a priest, and should travel over the world.

Margalida he was keeping for some farmer who should add to the lands of

Can Mallorqui when he inherited them.

The Little Chaplain thought eagerly of him who might be the one favored

by Margalida. It would be a struggle for them all, having at their head

a man like the Ironworker. Even if his sister should incline toward

another, the fortunate one would be compelled to settle accounts with

Pere, the glorious desperado, and must put him out of the way. Great

things were going to be seen. The courting of Margalida was already

discussed in every house in the cuarton; her fame would spread

throughout the whole island; and Pepet smiled with ferocious delight

like a young savage on his way to a massacre.

He looked up to Margalida, acknowledging her as a greater authority than

his father for the reason that his respect was not based on fear of

blows. She it was who managed the house; everyone obeyed her. Even her

mother walked in her footsteps like a serving woman, not venturing to do

anything without consulting her. Senor Pep hesitated before making a

decision, scratching his forehead with a gesture of doubt and murmuring,

"I must consult the girl about that." The Little Chaplain himself, who

had inherited the paternal obstinacy, quickly yielded at his sister's

slightest word, a gentle insinuation from her smiling lips uttered in

her sweet voice.

"The things she knows, Don Jaime!" said the boy with admiration, and he

enumerated her talents, dwelling with a certain respect on her skill in

singing.

"Do you know the Minstrel, the sick boy, Don Jaime? He has trouble with

his chest. He cannot work, and he spends his time lying in the shade

thumping on a tambourine and mumbling verses. He's a white lamb, a

chicken, with eyes and skin like a woman's, incapable of standing up

before a brave man. He aspires to Margalida, too," but the Little

Chaplain swore that he would smash the tambourine over his head before

he would accept him as a brother-in-law. He would only claim as a

relative of his a hero. Yet, as for making up songs and singing them

interspersed with cries like the peacock's, there was no one to equal

the Minstrel. One should be just, and Pepet recognized the youth's

merit. He was a glory to the cuarton, almost to be compared with the

valorous Ironworker. At the summer gatherings on the porchu of the

farmhouse, or at the Sunday dances, Margalida, blushing, urged on by her

companions, would sometimes take a seat in the center of the circle,

and, the tambourine on her knee, her eyes hidden behind a kerchief,

would reply with a long romance of her own invention to the rhymes of

the troubadour.

If, some Sunday, the Minstrel intoned a long harangue about the perfidy

of woman and how dear her fondness for dress cost man, the following

Sunday Margalida would reply with a romanza twice as long, criticizing

the vanity and egoism of the men, while the crowd of girls chorused her

verses with cluckings of enthusiasm, glorying in having an avenger in

the girl of Can Mallorqui.

"Pepet!... Pepet!..."

A feminine voice sounded in the distance like a crystal, breaking the

dense silence of the early afternoon hours vibrant with heat and light.

The voice grew stronger, as if approaching the tower.

Pepet changed from the position of a young animal at rest, freeing his

legs from his encircling arms, and sprang to his feet. It was Margalida

calling him. No doubt his father needed him for some task, and he had

made a long visit.

Jaime grasped his arm.

"Wait, let her come," he said, smiling. "Pretend you don't hear her."

The Little Chaplain's lustrous teeth glistened in his bronzed face. The

young imp was pleased at this innocent duplicity, and he took advantage

of it by speaking to the senor with bold confidence.

"You will really ask Senor Pep for it--for my grandfather's knife?"

"Yes, you shall have it," said Jaime. "Or if your father will not give

it to you I will buy you the best one I can find in Iviza."

The boy rubbed his hands, his eyes glowing with savage joy.

"Having that will make a man of you," continued Febrer, "but you must

not use it! Just a decoration, nothing else."

Eager to realize his desire at once, Pepet replied with energetic

nodding of his head. Yes, a decoration, nothing else! Yet his eyes

darkened with a cruel doubt. A decoration it might be, but if anyone

should offend him while he had such a companion, what ought a man to do?

"Pepet!"

The crystal voice now rung out several times at the foot of the tower.

Febrer waited for her coming, hoping to see Margalida's head, and then

her figure, appear in the doorway; but he waited in vain; the voice grew

more insistent, with pretty quavers of impatience.

Febrer peeped through the doorway and saw the girl standing at the foot

of the stairs, in her full blue skirt and her straw hat with its

streamers of flowered ribbons. The broad brim of her hat seemed to form

an aureole around the rose-pale face in which trembled the dark drops of

her eyes.

"Greeting, Almond Blossom!" called Febrer, smiling, but with hesitation

in his voice.

Almond Blossom! As the girl heard this name on the senor's lips a flush

of color momentarily overspread the soft whiteness of her face.

Had Don Jaime heard that name? But did such a gentleman interest himself

in nonsense of that kind?

Now Febrer saw nothing but the crown and brim of Margalida's hat. She

had lowered her head, and in her confusion stood fingering the corners

of her apron, abashed, like a girl listening to the first words of love,

and suddenly realizing the significance of life.

CHAPTER III

LOVE AND DANCING

The next Sunday morning Febrer took a trip to town. Tio Ventolera could

not go fishing with him, for he considered his presence at mass

indispensable, that he might respond to the priest with his shrill

voice.

Having nothing else to do, Jaime started for the pueblo, walking along

the paths in the red earth which stained his white hempen sandals. It

was one of the last days of summer. The snowy white farmhouses seemed to

reflect the African sun like mirrors. Swarms of insects buzzed in the

air. In the green shade of the spreading fig trees, low and round, like

roofs of verdure resting on their circle of supports, figs opened by the

heat, fell, flattening on the ground like enormous drops of purple

sugar. Prickly pears raised their thorny, wall-like trunks on either

side of the road, and among their dusty roots whisked flexible, little

animals, with long emerald green tails, intoxicated by the sun.

Through the dark and twisted columns of the olive and almond trees

groups of peasants, also on their way to town, could be seen in the

distance, following other paths. The girls in their Sunday gowns walked

in advance, wearing red or white kerchiefs and green skirts, their gold

chains glittering in the sun; near them walked the suitors, a tenacious

and hostile escort that disputed for every glance or word of

preference, several of them laying siege to the girl at the same time.

The procession was closed by the girls' parents, aged before their time

by the hardships and cares of country life, poor beasts of the soil,

submissive, resigned, black of skin, with their limbs as dry as

vineshoots, and who, in the dullness of their minds, looked back upon

their years of courting as a vague and remote springtime.

Febrer turned in the direction of the church when he reached the

village, which consisted of six or eight houses with the alcalde's

office, the school and the tavern, grouped about the temple of worship.

This rose stately and imposing, the band of union of all the dwellings

scattered through mountains and valleys for some kilometers roundabout.

Removing his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow, Jaime took

refuge beneath the arcade of a small cloister before the church. Here he

experienced the sensation of well being as does the Arab when, after a

journey across the burning sands, he takes asylum with the lonely

hermit.

The snowy exterior of the whitewashed church with its cool arcade and

its walled terraces crowned with nopals, reminded him of an African

mosque. It had more resemblance to a fortress than a temple. Its roofs

were concealed by the upper edge of the walls, a kind of redoubt over

which fire-locks and catapults had frequently peered. The tower was a

military turret still crowned with merlons. Its old bell had pealed

forth with feverish clangor of alarm in other times.

This church, in which the peasants entered life with baptism and left it

with the mass for the dead, had for centuries been their refuge in time

of stress, their fortress of defense. When the atalayas on the coast

announced with fires or smoke the approach of a Moorish vessel,

families streamed to the temple from all the farmhouses in the parish;

men carrying guns, women and children driving asses and goats or bearing

on their backs all the fowls of their barnyards, their feet tied

together like a bundle of faggots. The house of God was converted into a

stable for the property of His followers. Off in one corner the priest

prayed with the women, his prayers interrupted by screams of anguish and

by crying children, while the fusileers on the roof explored the horizon

until word came that the sea birds of prey had sailed away. Then normal

existence began again, each family returning to its isolation, with the

certainty of being compelled to repeat the agonizing journey within a

few weeks.

Febrer continued standing under the arcade, watching the hurrying groups

of peasants, spurred forward by the last stroke of the bell whirling in

the tower-loft. The church was almost full. A dense effluvium of hot

breath, perspiration, and coarse clothing floated out to Jaime through

the half-open door. He felt a certain sympathy for these good people

when he met them singly, but in a crowd they aroused aversion, and he

kept away.

Every Sunday he came to the pueblo and stood in the doorway of the

church. The loneliness of his tower on the coast made it necessary to

see his fellow men. Besides, Sunday was, for him, a man without

occupation, a monotonous, wearisome, interminable day. This day of rest

for others was for him a torment. He could not go fishing for lack of a

boatman, and the solitary fields, with their closed houses, the families

being at mass or at the afternoon dance, gave him the painful impression

of a stroll through a cemetery. He would spend the morning in San Jose,

and one of his diversions consisted in standing under the arcade of the

church watching the coming and going of the crowd, enjoying the cool

shade of the cloister, while a few steps away the soil was burning in

the sun. The branches of the trees writhed as if agonized by the heat

and by the dust covering their leaves, and the hot air stifled one as it

was drawn into the lungs.

Belated families began to arrive, passing Febrer with a glance of

curiosity and a diffident greeting. Everyone in the cuarton knew him;

they were kind folk, who, on seeing him out in the country opened their

doors to him, but their affability went no further, for they could not

get near to him. He was a "foreigner"; moreover a Majorcan! The fact of

his being a gentleman aroused a vague distrust in the rustic people, who

could not understand his living in the lonely tower.

Febrer remained solitary. He could hear the ringing of a little bell,

the rustle of the crowd as the people knelt or struggled up to their

feet, and a familiar voice, the voice of Tio Ventolera, giving the

responses in sing-song tones, with the harsh stridor of his toothless

mouth. The people accepted the old man's officious interference without

a smile, attributing it to senile aberration. They had been accustomed

for years and years to hearing the Latin jargon of the old sailor, who

from his pew supported the responses of the assistant in a loud voice.

They attributed a certain sacred character to these vagaries, like the

Orientals who see in dementia a sign of piety.

Jaime lighted a cigarette to help while away the time. Doves were cooing

on the arches, breaking the long silences with their tender calls. Jaime

had cast, one after another, three cigarette stubs on the ground near

his feet before a long drawn out murmur came from within the church, as

from a thousand suspended breaths which finally exhaled a sigh of

satisfaction. Then a noise of footsteps, scraping of chairs, creaking of

benches, dragging of feet, and the doorway was thronged by people, all

trying to crowd out at once.

The faithful exchanged friendly greetings as if they saw one another for

the first time as they met out in the sunshine beyond the dim light of

the temple.

"Bon dia! Bon dia!"

The women came out in groups; the elder ones dressed in black, emitting

a stale odor from their innumerable skirts and petticoats; the young

ones erect in rigid corsets which crushed their breasts and obliterated

the prominent curves of their hips, displaying with stately pride, above

the motley hued handkerchiefs, gold chains and enormous crucifixes.

There were brown faces and olive, with great eyes of dramatic

expression; coppery virgins with glossy, oily hair divided by a part

which their rough combing was ever widening.

The men stopped in the doorway to adjust upon their tonsured heads the

kerchief worn in womanish fashion under their hats, below which fell

long curls over their foreheads. It was a relic of the ancient haick, or

Arabian hood, now worn only on extraordinary occasions.

Then the old men drew from their belts their rustic, home-made pipes,

filling them with the tobacco of the pota, an acrid herb which was

cultivated on the island. The young men strolled from the porch and

adopted ferocious attitudes, their hands in their belts, and their heads

held high, before the groups of women, among which were the beloved

atlotas, the marriageable girls, who feigned indifference, but at the

same time peeped at them out of the corners of their eyes.

Gradually the mass of people scattered.

"Bon dia! Bon dia!"

Many of them would not meet until the following Sunday. Along every path

walked multi-colored groups; some dark, without any escort, moving

slowly, as if dragging themselves along in the misery of old age; others

energetic, with rustling skirts and fluttering kerchiefs, followed by a

troop of boys, who shouted, whinnied like colts, and ran back and forth

to attract the girls' attention.

Febrer saw a few black-clad figures leave the church, a somber group of

shawled women, each affording a glimpse through the opening in the

mantle of a nose reddened by the sun, and of one eye swimming in tears.

They were covered by the abrigais, the winter shawl, the coarse wool

wrap of ancient usage, the very sight of which on that sultry summer

morning aroused sensations of torment and asphyxia. Then followed some

hooded men, old peasants wearing the ceremonial cape, a gray garment of

coarse wool, with broad sleeves and tight hood. The sleeves were loose

and the hood was fastened under the chin, showing their brown,

pirate-like faces.

They were relatives of a peasant who had died the week before. The large

family, which dwelt in different parts of the cuarton, had gathered,

according to custom, at the Sunday mass to honor the deceased, and when

they saw one another they gave vent to their grief with African

vehemence, as if the corpse still lay before their eyes. Tradition

demanded that they cover themselves with the ceremonial garments, their

winter dress serving to shut them up as it were in casques of mourning.

They wept and perspired inside their wraps, and as each recognized a

relative whom he had not seen for several days, his grief burst forth

anew. Sighs of agony issued from within the heavy wrappings; the rude

faces framed by the hood wrinkling and emitting howls like sick babies.

They expressed their grief by melting into an incessant flood of mingled

perspiration and tears. From every nose, the most visible part of these

grief-struck phantoms, trembled drops which fell upon the folds of their

heavy garments.

In the midst of the clamor of feminine voices, hoarse with pain, and the

masculine lamentations sharpened by grief, a man began to speak with

kindly authority, demanding calm. It was Pep, of Can Mallorqui, a

far-off connection of the dead man. In this island where everyone was

more or less united by ties of blood, the distant relationship, although

it required that he participate in the mourning, did not oblige him to

don the haik worn on solemn occasions. He was dressed in black, and

covered with a light wool mantle and a round felt hat that gave him a

certain ecclesiastic air. His wife and Margalida, who did not consider

themselves related to this family, stood at a distance, as if their

bright Sunday apparel set them apart from this show of affliction.

Good natured Pep pretended to be angry at the extremes of despair which

were growing more and more vehement. Enough, enough! Let everyone return

to his house, and live many years commending the dead to God's mercy.

The weeping grew louder beneath the shawls and hoods. Adios! Adios! They

clasped each other's hands, they kissed each other's lips, they twisted

each other's arms, as if saying farewell never to meet again. Adios!

Adios! They departed in groups, each taking a different direction,

toward the pine-covered mountains, toward the distant white farmhouses

half hidden among fig and almond trees, toward the red rocks along the

shore, and it was an absurd and incongrouous spectacle to see these

heavy perspiring images, these tireless mourners, marching slowly

through the resplendent green fields.

The return to Can Mallorqui was sad and silent. Pepet led the way, the

bimbau between his lips buzzing like a gad-fly. From time to time he

stopped to throw a stone at a bird or at a puffed-up black lizard

darting among the opuntia cactus. Little impression did death make upon

him! Margalida walked at her mother's side, silent, abstracted, her eyes

opened very wide, beautiful bovine eyes, which looked in every direction

reflecting not a single thought. She seemed to forget that behind her

was Don Jaime, the senor, the revered guest of the tower.

Pep, also abstracted, addressed an occasional word to Febrer, as if he

felt need of one with whom to share his feelings.

"What an ugly thing is death, Don Jaime! Here we are, in a bit of land

surrounded by the waters, unable to escape, unable to defend ourselves,

awaiting the moment for the final weighing of the anchor."

The peasant's egoism rebelled at this injustice. It was all very well

that over there on the mainland, where people are happy and enjoy life,

Death should show himself; but here--here, too, in this far-away corner

of the world, was there no limit, no exemption from the great meddler?

It was useless to think of obstacles against Death's coming. The sea

might be raging along the chain of islands and reefs lying between Iviza

and Formentera; the narrow channels might be boiling caldrons, the rocks

crowned with foam, and the rude men of the sea might acknowledge

themselves vanquished and seek safety in the harbors, the passage might

be closed against every living thing, the islands shut off from the rest

of the world, but this signified nothing to the invincible mariner with

the hairless head, to him who walks with fleshless legs, who rushes with

gigantic strides over mountain and sea. No storm could detain him; no

joy could make him forget; he was everywhere; he remembered everyone.

The sun might shine, the fields might be in the fullness of their glory,

the crops bountiful--they were deceptions to divert man in his tasks and

to make these more endurable! Deceitful promises, like those made to

children, so that they will submit to the torments of school!

Nevertheless, one must allow himself to be deceived; the lie was good;

one must not dwell upon this inevitable ill, this ultimate danger for

which there was no remedy, and which saddened life, depriving the bread

of its relish, the liquid of the grape of its merry sparkle, the white

cheese of its succulency, the open fig of its sweetness, and the roasted

sausage of its piquant strength, overshadowing and embittering all the

good things that God has put on the island for the enjoyment of worthy

people. "Ah, Don Jaime, what misery!"

Febrer dined at Can Mallorqui to save Pep's children the climb up to the

tower. The meal was begun in gloom, as if the lamentations of the hooded

creatures on the porch of the church still vibrated in their ears; but

gradually around the little low table, crowned with its great bowl of

rice, joy began to spread. The Little Chaplain talked of the afternoon

dance, absolutely forgetting his life in the Seminary, and venturing to

meet Pep's eyes. Margalida recalled the Minstrel's glances and the

Ironworker's arrogant mien when she had walked past the youths on her

way to mass. Her mother sighed.

"Alas, senor! alas, senor!"

She never said more than this, accompanying her confused thoughts of

joy or of sorrow with the same exclamation.

Pep had made numerous attacks upon the wine-jug filled with the rosy

juice of grapes from the very vines which spread a leafy screen before

the porch. His melancholy face was flushed with a merry light. "To the

Devil with Death and all fear of him!"

Should an honorable man spend his whole life trembling at thought of

Death's approach? Let him present himself whenever he wished! Meanwhile,

let a man live! And he manifested this desire to live by falling asleep

on a bench, and by loud snoring, which did not avail to frighten away

the flies and wasps whirling about his mouth.

Febrer returned to his tower. Margalida and her brother barely noticed

the senor. They had left the table that they might more freely discuss

the dance, with the light-heartedness of children who were disturbed by

the presence of a serious person.

In the tower he threw himself upon his couch and tried to sleep. All

alone! He reflected upon his isolation, surrounded by people who

respected him, who, perhaps, even loved him, but at the same time felt

in irresistible attraction for their simple pleasures which were insipid

to him. What a torment these Sundays were! Where should he go? What

could he do?

In his determination to while away the time, to seek relief from an

existence wanting in immediate purpose, he at last fell asleep. He awoke

late in the afternoon when the sun was beginning slowly to descend

beyond the line of islands in a shower of pale gold which seemed to

impart to the waters a deeper and intenser blue.

On going down to Can Mallorqui he found the farmhouse closed. Nobody!

His footsteps did not even arouse the dog that lived under the porch.

The vigilant animal had also gone to the fiesta with the family.

"They've all gone to the dance," thought Febrer. "Suppose I go to the

pueblo myself!"

He hesitated for awhile. What could he do there? He detested these

diversions in which the presence of a stranger aroused animosity among

the peasants. They preferred to remain by themselves. Should he, at his

age, and with his austere appearance, that inspired only respect and

chill, go and dance with an island maiden? He would have to keep near

Pep and the other men, breathing the odor of native tobacco, discussing

the almond crop and the possibility of a frost, making an effort to

bring his mind down to the level of these peasant farmers.

At last he decided to go. He dreaded solitude. Rather than spend the

rest of the afternoon alone he preferred the dull, monotonous,

conversation of the simple folk, a restful conversation, he said to

himself, which did not compel him to think, and which left his mind in a

state of sweet, animal calm.

Near San Jose he saw the Spanish flag floating over the roof of the

alcalde's office, while the hollow beating of a drum, the bucolic

quavering of a flute, and the snapping of castanets, reached his ears.

The dance took place in front of the church. The young people were

formed into groups, standing near the musicians, who occupied low seats.

The drummer, with his round instrument resting on one knee, beat the

parchment with rhythmical strokes, while his companion blew on a long,

wooden flute, carved with primitive designs. The Little Chaplain was

flipping castanets as enormous as the shells brought in by Tio

Ventolera.

The girls, their arms about each other's waists, or leaning against

their shoulders, glanced with modest hostility at the young men, who

strutted through the center of the plaza, hands in belts, broad felt

hats thrust back to show the curls hanging over their foreheads,

embroidered kerchiefs or ribbon cravats around their necks, wearing

sandals of immaculate whiteness, almost concealed by the bell of the

velveteen trousers cut in the shape of an elephant's foot.

At one side of the plaza, seated on a hummock or on chairs from the

nearby tavern, were the mothers and old women; matrons anemic and

saddened in their relative youth by excessive procreation and the

hardships of rural life, with eyes sunken in a blue circle that seemed

to reveal internal disorders, wearing on their breasts the gold chains

of their youthful days, their sleeves decorated with silver buttons. The

old women, coppery and wrinkled, wearing dark dresses, sighed grievously

at sight of the merriment among the young girls and boys.

After gazing for some time at these people who scarcely yielded him a

glance, he placed himself beside Pep in a circle of old peasants. They

received the gentleman from the tower with respectful silence, and after

puffing a few mouthfuls of smoke from pipes filled with native tobacco,

they resumed their stupid conversation about the probable severity of

the approaching winter and the prospects of the coming crop of almonds.

The drum continued beating, the flute shrilled, the enormous castanets

clanked, but not a couple sprang into the center of the plaza. The

swains seemed to confer with indecision, as if each were afraid to

venture first. Besides, the unexpected presence of the Majorcan

gentleman somewhat intimidated the bashful girls.

Jaime felt someone nudge his elbow. It was the Little Chaplain, who

whispered mysteriously into his ear, at the same time pointing with a

finger: "There's Pere the Ironworker, the famous verro." He designated a

youth of less than medium stature, but arrogant and ostentatious in his

appearance. The young men were grouped around the hero. The Minstrel was

talking animatedly with him, and he was listening with condescending

gravity, spitting through his half-open lips, and admiring himself for

the distance to which he sent the stream of saliva.

Suddenly the Little Chaplain sprang into the center of the plaza,

flourishing his hat. What, were they going to spend the whole afternoon

listening to the flute without dancing? He ran to the group of damsels

and grasped the biggest one by the hands, dragging her after him: "You!"

he called. This was invitation enough. The more rudely he slapped her

arm the greater was the compliment.

The mischievous youth stood facing his partner, an arrogant and ugly

girl with coarse hands, oily hair, and swarthy face, nearly a head

taller than himself. Suddenly turning toward the musicians, the boy

protested. He did not want to dance the "llarga"; he wanted to dance the

"curta." The "long" and the "short" were the only two dances known on

the island. Febrer had never been able to distinguish between them--a

simple variation of rhythm, otherwise the music and the step seemed

identical.

The girl, with one arm bent against her waist in the form of a handle,

and the other hanging down, began to whirl slowly. She had nothing else

to do; this was her entire dance. She lowered her eyes, curled her lips

as if performing a vigorous task, and with a gesture of virtuous scorn,

as if dancing against her will, she turned and turned, tracing great

figure eights. It was the man who really did the dancing. This

traditional reel, invented, doubtless, by the first settlers of the

island, lusty pirates of the heroic age, illustrated the eternal history

of the human race, the pursuing and hunting of the female. She whirled,

cold and unfeeling, with the asexual hauteur of a rude virtue, fleeing

from his springing and contortions, presenting her back to him with a

gesture of scorn, while his fatiguing duty consisted in placing himself

ever before her eyes, obstructing her path, coming out to meet her so

that she should see and admire him. The dancer sprang and sprang,

following no rule whatever, with no other restraint than the rhythm of

the music, rebounding from the ground with tireless elasticity.

Sometimes he would open his arms with a masterful gesture of domination,

again he would fold them across his back, kicking his feet in the air.

It was a gymnastic exercise rather than a dance, the delirium of an

acrobat, a phrenetic movement like the war dances of African tribes. The

woman neither perspired nor flushed; she continued her turning, coldly,

never accelerating her pace, while her companion, dizzy from his

velocity, panted for breath with reddened face, at last retiring

tremulous with fatigue. Every girl could dance with several men,

exhausting them without effort. It was the triumph of feminine

passiveness, laughing at the arrogant ostentation of the opposite sex,

knowing that in the end she would witness his humiliation.

The appearance of the first couple drew out the others. In a moment the

entire open space before the musicians was covered with heavy skirts,

beneath whose rigid and multiple folds moved the small feet in white

hempen sandals or yellow shoes. The broad bells of the pantaloons

vibrated with the rapid movement of the springing or the energetic

stamping which raised clouds of dust. Manly arms chose with gallant slap

among the clustered maidens. "You!" And this monosyllable followed the

tug of conquest, the blows which were equivalent to a momentary title of

possession, all the extremes of a crude, ancestral predilection, of a

gallantry inherited from remote forbears of the dark epoch when the

club, the stone, and the hand-to-hand struggle were the first

declaration of love.

Some youths who had allowed themselves to be preceded by others more

bold in the choice of partners, stood near the musicians watching for a

chance to succeed to their companions. When they saw a dancer red-faced

and perspiring, making every effort to continue, they approached him,

grasping him by the arm and flinging him aside, and calling, "Leave her

to me!" And they took his place with no other explanation, springing and

pursuing the girl with the ardor of fresh energy, while she did not seem

to notice the change, for she continued her turning with lowered eyes

and disdainful mien.

Jaime had not seen Margalida at first, as she was surrounded by her

companions, but soon he recognized her among the dancers.

Beautiful Almond Blossom! Febrer thought her more lovely than ever as he

compared her with her friends, brown and tanned by the sun and by toil.

Her white skin, its flower-like delicacy, with the deep and brilliant

eyes of a gentle little animal, her graceful figure, and even the

softness of her hands, set her apart, as if she belonged to a different

race from her dusky companions, seductive on account of their youth,

lively, good-natured, but who seemed to be chopped out with an axe.

Looking at her, Jaime thought that in a different atmosphere she might

have been an adorable creature. He divined in Almond Blossom countless

delicate ways, of which she herself was unconscious. What a pity that

she had been born in this island which she would never leave! And her

beauty would be for some of those barbarians who admired her with a

canine stare of eagerness! Perhaps she was destined for the Ironworker,

that odious verro, who seemed to patronize them all with his gloomy

eyes!

When she married she would cultivate the soil like the other women; her

flower-like whiteness would fade and turn yellow; her hands would become

black and scaly; she would be like her mother and all the old peasant

women, a female skeleton, bent and knaggy, like the trunk of an olive

tree. These thoughts saddened Febrer, as a great injustice. How had the

simple Pep, who stood beside him, produced this offspring? What obscure

combination of race had made it possible for Margalida to be born in Can

Mallorqui? Must this mysterious and perfumed flower of peasant stock

fade as would the woodland buds growing beside her?

Suddenly something unusual distracted Febrer's mind from these thoughts.

The flute, the tambourine, and the castanets continued playing, the

dancers sprang, the girls turned, but a gleam of alarm shone in the eyes

of all, an expression of defensive solidarity. The old men ceased their

conversation, glancing in the direction of the women. "What is it? What

is it?" The Little Chaplain ran about among the couples, whispering into

the ears of the dancers. These dashed from the circle, their hands in

their belts, and after disappearing for a few seconds returned

immediately to take their places, while the girls continued turning.

Pep smiled lightly as he guessed what had happened, and he whispered to

the senor. "It is nothing; just what happens at every dance." There had

been danger, and the boys had put their equipment in a safe place.

This "equipment" consisted of the pistols and knives which the boys

carried as a testimony of citizenship. For an instant Febrer saw flash

in the light stupendous and enormous weapons, marvelously concealed on

those spare, thin bodies. The old women beckoned with their bony hands,

eager to share the risk, the vehemence of an aggressive heroism shining

in their eyes. "These accursed times of impiety in which decent people

are molested when they were following ancient customs! Here! Here!" And

grasping the deadly weapons they hid them beneath the circle made by

their innumerable layers of petticoats and skirts. The young mothers

settled themselves in their seats and broadened the angle of their bulky

legs, as if to offer greater hiding space for the warlike implements.

The women looked at each other with bellicose resolution. Let those evil

souls dare to approach! They would suffer being torn to shreds before

they would stir from their places.

Febrer saw something glittering down a roadway leading to the church.

They were leather straps and guns, and above these the white brims of

the three-cocked hats of a pair of civil guards.

The two defenders of the peace slowly approached, with a certain

hesitation, convinced, no doubt, of having been seen in the distance and

of arriving too late. Jaime was the only one who looked at them; the

rest pretended not to see, holding their heads low or looking in a

different direction. The musicians played more vehemently, but the

couples began to retire. The girls deserted the young men and joined the

group of women.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

To this greeting from the elder of the guards the drum replied by

ceasing to beat and leaving the flute unaccompanied. This whined a few

notes which seemed an ironic answer to the salutation.

A long silence fell. Some answered the greeting with a light "Tengui!"

but they all pretended not to see, and glanced in another direction, as

if the guards were not there.

The painful silence seemed to annoy the two soldiers.

"Vaya! Go on with your diversion. Don't stop on our account!"

He gave a sign to the musicians, and they, incapable of disobeying

authority in anything, produced a music more brisk and diabolically gay

than before; but they might as well be playing to the dead! Everyone

stood silent and glowering, wondering how this unexpected visit would

end.

The guards, accompanied by the beating of the drum, the musical capering

of the flute, and the dry and strident laughter of the castanets, began

moving about among the groups of young men, looking them over.

"You young gallant," said the leader with paternal authority, "hands

up!"

The one designated obeyed tamely without the slightest intent of

resistance, almost vain of this distinction. He knew his duty. The

Ivizan was born to work, to live, and--to be searched. Noble

inconveniences of being valorous, and of being held in a certain fear!

Every youth seeing in the searching a testimony of his worth, raised his

arms and thrust forward his abdomen, lending himself with satisfaction

to the fumbling of the guards, while he glanced proudly toward the group

of girls.

Febrer noticed that the two officers pretended to ignore the presence

of the Ironworker. They acted as if they did not recognize him; they

turned their backs, making visible display of paying no attention to

him.

Pep spoke to Febrer in a low voice, with an accent of admiration. Those

men with the tricorne hats knew more than the devil himself; by not

searching the verro they almost offered him an insult; they showed that

they had no fear of him; they set him apart from the rest, exempting him

from an operation to which everyone else was compelled to submit.

Whenever they met the verro in the company of other young men, they

searched those, without ever touching him. For this reason the boys,

through fear of losing their weapons, finally avoided going out with the

hero, and they shunned him as an attractor of danger.

The searching continued to the sound of music. The Little Chaplain

followed the guards on their evolutions, always placing himself before

the elder one, with his hands in his belt, looking at him fixedly, with

an expression half threatening, half entreating. The man did not seem to

see him; he looked for the others, but he continually stumbled against

the youngster, who barred his way. The man with the three-cocked hat

finally smiled under his fierce mustache, and called his comrade.

"You!" he said, pointing to the boy. "Search that verro. He must be

dangerous."

The Little Chaplain, forgiving the enemy's waggish tone, raised his arms

as high as possible so that no one should fail to see his importance.

The guard had moved away after giving him a tickling in the stomach, but

the boy still maintained his position as a man to be feared. Then he

rushed toward a group of girls to boast of the danger he had faced.

Fortunately his grandfather's knife was at home, safely hidden away by

his father. Had he borne it on his person they would have taken it from

him.

The guards soon wearied of this fruitless search. The elder glanced

maliciously toward the group of women, like a dog sniffing a trail. He

knew well enough where the weapons were concealed, but let anyone

venture to make the bronze matrons stir from their places! Hostility

shone in the eyes of the ancient dames. They would have to be torn away

by main force, and they were senoras!

"Gentlemen, good afternoon!"

They slung their guns over their shoulders, refusing the proffer of some

youths who had run to a tavern to bring glasses. They were offered

without fear or rancor; were they not all neighbors, living together on

their little island? The guards, however, were firm in their refusal.

"Thanks; it is against the rules." They strode away, perhaps to lie in

ambush a short distance away and repeat the searching again at sunset

when the party was broken up and the people returning to their lonely

farmhouses.

After the danger had passed the instruments ceased playing. Febrer saw

the Minstrel take the little drum and seat himself in the open space

recently occupied by the dancers. The people crowded around him. The

venerable matrons drew up their esparto-seated chairs in order to hear

better. He was about to sing a romance of his own composition; a

relacion, accentuated, according to the custom of the country, by a

quavering plaint, a cry of pain drawn out as long as the singer had air

left in his lungs.

He beat the drum slowly to impart a gloomy solemnity to his monotonous

song, dreamy and sad. "How can I sing for you, friends, when my heart is

broken?" began the recitative; and then, in the midst of a general

silence, came a strident trill, like the long continued lament of a

dying bird.

The entire company gazed at the singer, not seeing in him the indolent,

sickly youth, despicable on account of his uselessness for work. In

their primitive minds stirred a vague something which impelled them to

respect the words and complaints of the weakling. It was something

extraordinary, which seemed to sweep, with rude beating of wings, over

their simple souls.

The Minstrel's voice sobbed as it told of a woman insensible to his

sighs, and as he compared her whiteness with the flower of the almond,

they turned their eyes to Margalida, who remained impassive, with no

sign of virginal flushing, being accustomed to this tribute of crude

poesy which was a sort of prelude to gallantry.

The Minstrel continued his laments, reddening with the strain of the

painful crowing which ended every strophe. His narrow chest heaved with

the effort; two rosettes of sickly purple colored his cheeks; his

slender neck dilated, the veins standing out in blue relief. In

accordance with custom, he concealed part of his face under an

embroidered kerchief, which he held with his arm resting on the drum.

Febrer felt anxiety listening to this painful voice. It seemed to him

that the singer's lungs would give way, that his throat would burst; but

his hearers, accustomed to this barbaric singing, which was as

exhausting as the dance, paid no attention to his fatigue, nor did they

weary of his interminable narration.

A group of youths, moving away from the circle around the poet, seemed

to be holding a consultation, and then they approached the older men.

They were in search of Senor Pep, of Can Mallorqui, to discuss an

important matter. They turned their backs scornfully upon the Minstrel,

an unhappy creature, good for nothing but to dedicate verses to the

girls.

The most venturesome of the group faced Pep. They wished to speak of the

"festeig" of Margalida; they reminded the father of his promise to

sanction the courting of the girl.

The peasant-farmer looked at the group deliberately, as if counting

their number.

"How many are you?"

The leader smiled. There were many more. They represented other young

men who had remained to hear the song. There were youths from every

district. Even from San Juan, at the opposite end of the island, youths

were coming to court Margalida.

Despite the mock gesture of an intractable father, Pep reddened and

compressed his lips with ill-concealed satisfaction, glancing out of the

corner of his eye at the friends sitting near him. What glory for Can

Mallorqui! Such a courtship had never been known before. Never had his

companions seen their daughters so honored.

"Are there twenty of you?" he asked.

The youths did not reply immediately, being occupied in mental

calculation, murmuring the names of friends. Twenty? More, many more! He

might count on thirty.

The peasant persisted in his pretended indignation. Thirty! Maybe they

thought he needed no rest, and that he was going to spend a whole night

without sleep, witnessing their courting.

Then he grew calm, giving himself up to complicated mental calculations,

while he repeated thoughtfully, with an expression of amazement,

"Thirty! Thirty!"

In the end he gave his sanction. He would not give more than an hour

and a half in one evening to the wooing. Since there were thirty, that

made three minutes each; three minutes, counted, watch in hand, to talk

to Margalida; not a minute more! Thursday and Saturday would be courting

nights. When he had gone courting his wife the suitors were many less,

and yet his father-in-law, a man who had never been seen to smile, did

not concede more time than this. There must be much formality,

understand! Let there be no rivalry nor fighting! The first one to break

the agreement Pep was man enough to beat out of the door with a club;

and if it became necessary to use the gun, he would use it.

Good-natured Pep, gratified at being able to assume unbounded ferocity

at the expense of the respect due from his daughter's suitors, heaped

bravado upon bravado, talking of killing anyone who should not keep to

the agreement, while the youths listened with humble mien, but with an

ironic grin under their noses.

The bargain was closed. Thursday next the first audience would be held

at Can Mallorqui. Febrer, who had heard the conversation, glanced at the

verro, who held himself aloof, as if his greatness prevented his

condescending to wretched haggling over the arrangement.

When the boys moved away to join the circle, discussing in a low voice

the order of precedence, the troubadour ceased his doleful music,

crowing his last crow with a dolorous voice that seemed finally to rend

his poor throat. He wiped away the perspiration, pressed his hands

against his breast, his face becoming a dark purple, but the people had

turned their backs and he was already forgotten.

The girls, with the solidarity of sex, surrounded Margalida with

vehement gesticulations, pushing her, and urging her to sing a reply to

what the troubadour had said about the perfidy of women.

"No! No!" replied Almond Blossom, struggling to rid herself of her

companions.

So sincere was she in her resistance that at last the old women

intervened, defending her. Let her alone! Margalida had come to enjoy

herself, and not to entertain the others. Did they think it such an easy

matter to suddenly compose a reply in verse?

The drummer had recovered the instrument from the Minstrel's hands and

began to beat it. The flute seemed to be gargling the rapid notes before

beginning the dreamy melody of an African rhythm. On with the dance!

The boys all began shouting at once with aggressive vehemence,

addressing the musicians. Some demanded the "long" and others the

"short"; they all felt themselves strong and imperious again. The deadly

steel had come forth from beneath the women's petticoats and had

returned to their belts, and contact with these companions imparted to

each a new life, a recrudescence of their arrogance.

The musicians began to play what they pleased, the curious crowd made

way, and again in the center of the plaza the white hempen sandals began

to spring, the whorls of green and blue skirts began to turn stiffly,

while the points of kerchiefs fluttered above heavy braids, or the

flowers worn by the girls behind their ears shook like red tassels.

Jaime continued looking at the Ironworker with the irresistible

attraction of antipathy. The verro stood silent and as if abstracted

among his admirers, who formed a circle around him. He seemed not to see

the others, fixing his eyes on Margalida with a tense expression, as if

he would conquer her with this stare which inspired fear in men. When

the Little Chaplain, with the enthusiasm of youth, approached the verro,

he deigned to smile, seeing in the boy a future relative.

Even the boys who had ventured to discuss the wooing with Senor Pep

seemed intimidated by the Ironworker's presence. The girls came out to

dance, led by the young men, but Margalida remained beside her mother,

gazed at enviously by all, yet none of them dared approach to invite

her.

The Majorcan felt the Camorrist tendencies of his early youth aroused in

him. He loathed the verro; he felt the terror inspired by the man as a

personal offense. Was there no one to give a slap in the face to this

coxcomb from the prison?

A youth approached Margalida, taking her by the hand. It was the

Minstrel, still perspiring and tremulous after his exertion. He held

himself erect, trying to give the lie to his weakness. The white Almond

Blossom began to turn on her small feet and he sprang and sprang,

pursuing her in her evolutions.

Poor boy! Jaime felt an impression of anguish, guessing the effort of

the pitiful attempt to dominate the fatigue of the body. He breathed

laboriously, his legs began to tremble, but in spite of this he smiled,

gratified at his triumph. He gazed tenderly at Margalida, and if he

turned away his eyes it was to look haughtily at his friends who

responded with looks of pity.

In making a turn he almost fell; as he gave a great leap his knees bent.

Everyone expected to see him fall to the ground; but he went on dancing,

displaying his will-power, his determination to die rather than confess

his weakness.

His eyes were closing with vertigo when he felt a touch on his

shoulder, according to usage, requiring him to yield his partner.

It was the Ironworker, who flung himself into the dance for the first

time that afternoon. His leaping was received with a murmur of applause.

They all admired him, with that collective cowardice of a timid

multitude.

The verro, seeing himself applauded, increased his contortions, pursuing

his partner, barring her way, surrounding her in the complicated net of

his movements, while Margalida turned and turned with lowered gaze,

avoiding the eyes of the dreaded gallant.

At times, the verro, to display his vigor, with his bust thrown back and

his arms behind him, sprang to a considerable height, as if the ground

were elastic and his legs steel springs. This leaping made Jaime think,

with a sensation of repugnance, of escapes from prison or of

surreptitious assaults with a knife.

Time passed, but the man did not seem to tire. Some of the girls had sat

down, in other cases the dancer had been substituted several times, but

the verro continued his violent dance, ever gloomy and disdainful, as if

insensible to weariness.

Jaime himself recognized with a dash of envy the terrible vigor of the

Ironworker. What an animal!

Suddenly the dancer was seen to feel for something in his belt, and

reach downward with one hand, without ceasing his evolutions or his

leaping. A cloud of smoke spread over the ground, and between its white

film two rapid flashes were outlined pale and rosy in the sunlight,

followed by two reports.

The women huddled together, screaming with sudden fright; the men stood

undecided, but soon all were reassured, and burst into shouts of

approbation and applause.

"Muy bien!" The verro had fired off his pistol at his partner's feet;

the supreme gallantry of a valiant man; the greatest homage a girl on

the island could receive.

Margalida, a woman at heart, continued dancing, without having been

greatly impressed, like a good Ivizan, by the explosion of the powder;

giving the Ironworker a look of gratitude for the bravado which made him

defy persecution from the civil guards who might still be near; then

turning to her friends who were tremulous with envy at this homage.

Even Pep himself, to the great indignation of Jaime, displayed pride

over the two shots fired at his daughter's feet.

Febrer was the only one who did not seem enthusiastic over this gallant

deed.

Accursed convict! Febrer was not sure of the motive of his fury, but it

was something spontaneous. He meant to settle accounts with that

peasant!

CHAPTER IV

THIRTY AND ONE WOOERS

Winter came. There were days when the sea would lash furiously against

the chain of islands and cliffs between Iviza and Formentera that form a

wall of rock cut by straits and channels. The deep blue waters, which

usually flow tranquilly through these narrows, reflecting the sandy

bottoms, would begin to whirl in livid eddies, dashing against the

coasts and the projecting rocks, which would disappear and then emerge

again in the white foam. Vessels would struggle valiantly against the

swift undertow and the spectacular, roaring waters between the islands

of Espalmador and Los Ahorcados, where lies the pathway of the great

ships. Vessels from Iviza and Formentera must spread all their canvas,

and sail under shelter of the barren islands. The sinuosities of this

labyrinth of channels permit navigators from the archipelago of the

Pityusae to go from one island to another by different routes, according

to the direction of the winds. While the sea rages on one side of the

archipelago, on the other it may be still and safe, lying heavy like

oil. In the straits the waves may swirl high in furious whirlpools, but

with a mere turn of the wheel, a slight shifting of her course, the

vessel may glide into the shelter of an island where she will ride in

tranquil waters, paradisiacal, limpid, affording views of strange

vegetation, where dart fishes sparkling with silver and flashing with

carmine.

Usually day dawned with a gray sky and an ashen sea. The Vedra seemed

more enormous, more imposing, lifting its conical needle in this stormy

atmosphere. The sea rushed in cataracts through the caverns on its

margin, roaring like the peals of gigantic cannons. The wild goats on

their inaccessible heights sprang from one narrow footing to another,

and only when thunder rolled through the gloomy heavens, and fiery

serpents flashed down to drink in the immense pool of the sea, did the

timid beasts flee with bleating of terror to seek refuge in the recesses

covered by juniper.

On many stormy days Febrer went fishing with Tio Ventolera. The old

sailor was thoroughly familiar with his sea. On the mornings when Jaime

remained in his couch watching the livid and diffuse light of a stormy

day filter through the crevices, he had to arise hastily on hearing the

voice of his companion who "sang the mass," accompanying the Latin

jargon by pelting the tower with stones. Get up! It was a fine day for

fishing. They would make a good catch. When Febrer gazed apprehensively

at the threatening sea, the old man explained that they would find

tranquil waters in the shelter around the Vedra.

Again, on radiant mornings, Febrer fruitlessly awaited the old man's

call. Time dragged on. After the rosy tint of dawn the golden bars of

sunlight stole through the cracks; but in vain the hours passed, he

heard neither mass nor stone throwing. Tio Ventolera remained invisible.

Then, on opening his window, he looked out upon the clear sky, luminous

with the gracious splendor of the winter sun, but the sea was restless,

a gloomy blue, undulating, without foam and without noise under the

impulse of a treacherous wind.

The winter rains covered the island as with a gray mantle, through which

the indefinite contours of the nearby range were vaguely outlined. On

the mountain tops the pine trees dropped tears from every filament, and

the thick layer of humus was soaked like a sponge, expelling liquid

beneath the footsteps. On the barren rocky heights along the coast, the

rain gathered, forming tumultuous brooks, which leapt from cliff to

cliff. The spreading fig trees trembled like enormous broken umbrellas,

allowing the water to enter the broad spaces beneath their cupolas. The

almond trees, denuded of their leaves, shook like black skeletons. The

deep gulleys filled with bellowing waters that flowed uselessly toward

the sea. The roads, paved with blue cobbles, between high, rocky banks,

were converted into cataracts. The island, thirsty and dusty during a

great part of the year, seemed to repel this exuberance of rain from all

its pores, as a sick man repels the strong medicine administered too

late. On these stormy days Febrer remained shut up in his tower. It was

impossible to go to sea and impossible also to go out hunting in the

island fields. The farmhouses were closed, their white cubes spotted by

torrents of rain, devoid of any other sign of life than the thread of

blue smoke escaping from the chimney tops.

Forced to inactivity, the lord of the Pirate's Tower began to read over

again one of the few books he had acquired on his trips to the city, or

he smoked pensively, recalling that past from which he had endeavored to

run away. What was happening in Majorca? What were his friends saying?

Given over to this enforced idleness, lacking the distraction of

physical exercise, he thought over his former life, which was daily

growing more hazy and indistinct in his memory. It seemed to him like

the life of another man; something which he had seen and been familiar

with, but which belonged to the history of another. Really was that

Jaime Febrer who had traveled all over Europe and had had his hours of

vanity and triumph the same person who was now living in this tower by

the sea, rustic, bearded, and almost savage, with the sandals and hat of

a peasant, more accustomed to the moaning of the waves and the screaming

of gulls than to contact with men?

Weeks before he had received a second letter from his friend Toni

Clapes. This also was written from a cafe on the Borne, a few hastily

scrawled lines to attest his regard. This rude but kind friend did not

forget him; he did not even seem to be offended because his former

letter had remained unanswered. He wrote about Captain Pablo. The

captain was still angry with Febrer, nevertheless he was working

diligently to disentangle his affairs. The smuggler had faith in Valls.

He was the cleverest of Chuetas, and more generous than any of them.

There was no doubt that he would save the remains of Jaime's fortune,

and he would be able to spend the rest of his days in Majorca, tranquil

and happy. Later he would hear from the captain himself. Valls preferred

to keep quiet until matters were settled.

Febrer shrugged his shoulders. Bah! It was all over! But on gloomy

winter days his spirit rebelled against existing like a solitary

mollusk, shut up in his stone shell. Was he always going to live like

this? Was it not folly to have hidden himself away in this corner while

still having youth and courage to struggle with the world?

Yes, it was folly. The island and his romantic shelter were all very

pretty for the first few months, when the sun shone, the trees were

green, and the island customs exercised over his soul the charm of a

bizarre novelty; but bad weather had come, the solitude was intolerable,

and the life of the rustics was revealed to him in all the crudity of

their barbarous passions. These peasants, dressed in blue velveteen,

with their bright belts and gay cravats and their flowers behind their

ears, had at first seemed to him picturesque figures, created only to

serve as a decoration for the fields, choristers for a pastoral

operetta, languid and tame; but he knew them better now; they were men

like others, and barbarous men, barely grazed by contact with

civilization, conserving all the sharp angles of their ancestral

rudeness. Seen from a distance, for a short time, they attracted with

the charm of novelty, but he had penetrated their customs, he was almost

one of them, and it weighed upon him like falling into slavery--this

inferior existence which seemed to be clashing every instant with ideas

and prejudices of his past.

He ought to get away from this atmosphere; but where could he go? How

could he escape? He was poor. His entire capital consisted of a few

dozens of duros which he had brought from Majorca, a sum which he

retained, thanks to Pep, who was firm in his refusal to accept any

remuneration whatever. Here he must remain, nailed to his tower as if it

were a cross, without hope, without desire, seeking in cessation of

thought a vegetative joy like that of the junipers and tamarisks growing

between the cliffs on the promontory, or like that of the shell fish

forever clinging to the submerged rocks.

After long reflection he resigned himself to his fate. He would not

think, he would not desire. Besides, hope, which, never forsakes us,

conceived in his mind the vague possibility of something extraordinary

that would present itself in its own good time, to save him from this

situation; but while it was on its way, how the loneliness bored him!

Margalida had not been to the tower for some time. She seemed to seek

pretexts for not coming, and she even went out of her way to avoid

meeting Febrer. She had changed; she seemed to have suddenly awakened to

a new existence. The innocent and trustful smile of girlhood had changed

to a gesture of reserve, like a woman who realizes the dangers of the

road and travels with slow and cautious step.

Since the courting had begun, and young men came twice a week to solicit

her hand, according to the traditional "festeig," she seemed to have

taken heed of great and unknown dangers before unsuspected, and she

remained at her mother's side, shunning every occasion of being left

alone with a man, and blushing as soon as masculine eyes met her own.

This courting had nothing extraordinary about it, according to island

customs, and yet it aroused in Febrer a dumb anger, as if he saw in it

an offense and a spoliation. The invasion of Can Mallorqui by the

braggart and enamored young blades he took as an insult. He had looked

upon the farmhouse as his home, but since these intruders had been

cordially received he was going to take his leave.

Besides, he suffered in silence the chagrin of not being the only

preoccupation of the family, as he had been at first. Pep and his wife

still looked up to him as their master; Margalida and her brother

venerated him as a powerful lord who had come from far away because

Iviza was the best place in the world; but in spite of this other

thoughts seemed to be reflected in their eyes. The visit of so many

youths and the change which this had wrought in their daily life, made

them less solicitous in regard to Don Jaime. They were all worried about

the future. Which one of the youths deserved in the end to be

Margalida's husband?

During the long winter evenings Febrer, shut up in his tower, sat gazing

at a little light shining forth in the valley below--the light of Can

Mallorqui. On the nights not devoted to the courting, the family would

be alone, gathered around the fireplace, but, in spite of this, he

remained fixed in his isolation. No, he would not go down. In his

chagrin he even complained of the bad weather, as if he would make the

winter cold responsible for this change which had gradually taken place

in his relations with the peasant family.

He wistfully recalled those beautiful summer nights when they used to

sit until the small hours watching the stars tremble in the dark sky

beyond the black border of the portico. Febrer used to sit beneath the

pergola with the family and Uncle Ventolera who came, drawn by the hope

of some gift. They never let him go away without a slice of watermelon,

which filled the old man's mouth with its sweet red juice, or a glass of

perfumed figola, brewed from fragrant mountain herbs. Margalida, her

eyes fixed on the mystery of the stars, would sing Ivizan romances in

her girlish voice, more fresh and soft to the ear of Febrer than the

breeze which filled the blue tumult of the night with rustling. Pep

would tell, with the air of a prodigious explorer, of his stupendous

adventures on the mainland during the years when he had served the king

as a soldier, in the remote and almost fantastic lands of Catalonia and

Valencia.

The dog, lying at his feet, seemed to be listening to his master with

mild, gentle eyes, in the depths of which a star was reflected. Suddenly

he would spring up with nervous impulse, and giving a leap, would

disappear in the darkness, accompanied by the sonorous murmur of

crashing vegetation. Pep would explain this stealthy flight. It was

nothing more than some animal wandering in the darkness; a jack rabbit,

a cotton-tail, which the beast had scented with the delicate nose of the

hunting dog. Again he would rise to his feet slowly with growls of

vigilant hostility. Somebody was passing near the farmhouse; a shadow, a

man walking quickly, with the celerity of the Ivizans, accustomed to

going rapidly from one side of the island to the other. If the shade

spoke, they all answered his greeting. If he passed in silence they

pretended not to see him, just as the dark traveler seemed to be

unconscious of the existence of the farmhouse and of the persons seated

under the pergola.

It was a very ancient custom in Iviza not to greet each other out in the

country after nightfall. Shadows passed along the roads without a word,

avoiding a meeting so as not to stumble against nor recognize each

other. Each was bound on business of his own, to see his sweetheart, to

consult the doctor, to kill an enemy at the other end of the island, to

return on a run and be able to prove an alibi by saying that at the

fatal hour he had been with friends. Every one who traveled at night had

his reasons for passing unrecognized. One shadow feared another shadow.

A "bona nit," or a request for a light for the cigarette, might be

answered by a pistol shot.

Sometimes no one passed by the farmhouse, and yet, the dog, stretching

out his neck, howled into the dark void. In the distance human howls

seemed to answer him. They were prolonged and savage yells, which rent

the mysterious silence like a war cry. "A-u-u-u!" And much farther away,

weakened by distance, replied another fierce exclamation: "A-u-u-u!"

The peasant silenced his dog. There was nothing strange about these

cries. They were the voices of youths howling in the darkness, guiding

one another by their calls, perhaps that they might recognize each other

and come together for a friendly purpose, or perhaps to fight, the cry

being a challenging shout. It was not unlikely that after the howling a

shot would ring out. Affairs of young bloods and of the night! They had

no significance.

Then Pep would continue the relation of his extraordinary journeys,

while his wife, who heard these ever new marvels for the thousandth

time, stared at him in amazement.

Uncle Ventolera, not to be outdone, narrated tales of pirates and of

valorous mariners of Iviza, bearing them out with the testimony of his

father, who had been cabin boy on Captain Riquer's xebec, and which

assaulted the frigate _Felicidad_, captained by the formidable corsair

"the Pope." Stirred by these heroic recollections, he hummed in his

quavering old voice the ballad in which Ivizan sailors had celebrated

the triumph, verses in Castilian, for greater solemnity, whose words Tio

Ventolera mispronounced.

The toothless old sailor continued singing the heroic deeds of long ago,

as if they dated from yesterday, as if he had witnessed them himself, as

if a flash from the atalaya announcing a disembarcation of enemies might

suddenly flare across this land of combat, enveloped in darkness.

Again, his eyes glittering with avarice, he would tell of enormous sums

which the Moors, the Romans, and other red mariners whom he called the

Normans, had buried in caves along the coast. His ancestors knew much

about all this. What a pity that they had died without saying a word! He

related the true history of the cavern of Formentera, where the Normans

had stored the product of their freebooting expeditions throughout Spain

and Italy--golden images of saints, chalices, chains, jewels, precious

stones and coins measured by the peck. A frightful dragon, trained

doubtless by the red men, used to guard the deep, dark cavern, with the

treasure beneath his belly. The rash soul who should slip down a rope

into the cave would serve the beast for nourishment. The red mariners

had died many centuries ago; the dragon was dead also; the treasure must

still be on Formentera. Who could find it? The rustic audience trembled

with emotion, never doubting the existence of such treasure because of

the respect inspired in them by the age of the narrator.

Placid summer evenings those, which were no longer repeated for Febrer!

He avoided going down to Can Mallorqui after dark, fearful of disturbing

by his presence the conversation of the family about Margalida's

suitors.

On courting nights he experienced even greater uneasiness, and, without

explaining to himself his motive, he stared longingly toward the

farmhouse. The same light, the same appearance as ever--but he imagined

that he could make out in the nocturnal silence, new sounds, the echo of

songs, Margalida's voice. There would be the odious Ironworker, and that

poor devil of a Minstrel, and the rude, barbarous youths, with their

ridiculous dress. Gran Dios! How was it possible that these rustics had

ever managed to interest him, after all that he had seen of the world?

The next day when the Little Chaplain would climb up to the tower to

bring his dinner, Jaime would question him about the events of the

previous evening.

Listening to the boy, Febrer pictured to himself the incidents of the

courting. The family supped hurriedly at nightfall, so as to be ready

for the ceremony. Margalida took down her gala skirt hanging from the

ceiling in her room, and after donning it with the red and green

kerchief crossed over her breast and a smaller one on her head, a long

bow of ribbon at the end of her braid, she put on the gold chain her

mother had turned over to her, and took her seat on the folded abragais

on a kitchen chair. Her father smoked his pipe of tobacco de pota; her

mother sat in a corner weaving rush baskets; the Little Chaplain peeped

out of the door to the broad porch, on which the youthful suitors were

silently gathering. Some there were who had been waiting for an hour,

for they lived near; there were others who came dusty or spattered with

mud, after walking two leagues. On rainy nights, in the shelter of the

porch they shook out their cowled Arabian capes of coarse weave, an

inheritance from their forefathers, or the feminine mantles in which

they were wrapped, as garments of modern elegance.

After briefly deciding upon the order to be followed in their

conversation with the girl, the troop of rivals started for the kitchen,

as it was too cold on the porch in winter. A knock on the door.

"Come in, whoever you are!" shouted Pep, as if ignorant of the presence

of the suitors and expecting an unusual visitor.

They entered tamely, greeting the family: "Bona nit! Bona nit!" They

took seats on a bench, like schoolboys, or they remained standing, all

gazing at the girl. Near her was a vacant chair, or if this were

lacking, the suitor squatted on the ground, Moorish fashion, talking to

her in low tones for three minutes, enduring the hostile gaze of his

adversaries. The slightest prolongation of this brief term provoked

coughing, furious glances, remonstrances and threats in undertones. The

youth would retire and another would take his place. The Little Chaplain

laughed at these scenes, seeing in the hostile tenacity of the suitors a

motive for pride. The courting of his sister was not going to be like

that of other girls. The suitors seemed to Pepet to be rabid dogs who

would not easily give up their prey. This wooing smelled to him of

gunpowder, and he affirmed it with a smile of joy and satisfaction which

disclosed the whiteness of his wolf-cub teeth in his dark oval face.

None of the suitors seemed to gain advantage over the others. During the

two months that the courting had lasted, Margalida had done nothing but

listen, smile, and respond to them all with words which confused the

youths. His sister's talent was very great. On Sundays when they went to

mass, she walked ahead of her parents accompanied by all her suitors--a

veritable army. Don Jaime had met them several times. Her friends,

seeing her come with this queenly retinue, paled with envy. The suitors

besieged her, endeavoring to extract some word, some sign of preference,

but she replied with astonishing discretion, keeping them all on the

same footing, avoiding fatal clashes which might suddenly arouse the

aggressive youths, who were always heavily armed.

"And how about the Ironworker?" asked Don Jaime.

Accursed verro! His name issued with difficulty from the senor's lips,

but he had been thinking of him for some time.

The boy shook his head. The Ironworker was making no particular advance

over his rivals, and the Little Chaplain did not seem to regret it

keenly.

His admiration for the verro had cooled somewhat. Love emboldens men,

and none of the youths who pretended to Margalida's hand, now that they

came face to face with him as a rival, stood in fear of him any longer,

and they even ventured disrespect to his formidable person. One evening

he had appeared with a guitar, intending to employ a large part of the

time which belonged to the others in playing. When his turn came he

placed himself near Margalida, tuned his instrument and began to intone

songs of the mainland learned during his retirement at "Niza"; but

before beginning he had taken from his girdle a double-barreled pistol,

cocked it, and had laid it upon one of his thighs, ready to grasp it and

to let fly a shot at the first man to interrupt him. Absolute silence

and impassive glances! He sang as long as he wished, he put up his

pistol with the air of a conqueror, but later, when they went out, in

the darkness of the fields, when the youths dispersed with cries of

ironic farewell, two well-aimed stones issuing from the shadows struck

the braggart to the ground, and for several days he failed to come to

the courting so as not to show his bandaged head. He had made no effort

to find out who the aggressor was. The rivals were many, and, moreover,

he had to take into account their fathers, uncles, and brothers, almost

a fourth part of the island, quick to mix in a war of vengeance for the

honor of the family.

"I think," said Pepet, "that the Ironworker is less valiant than they

say; and what is your opinion about it, Don Jaime?"

When it was growing late, and Margalida had talked with each of her

suitors, her father, who was dozing in a corner, would break into a

loud yawn. The man of the fields seemed to divine the passing of time

even when asleep. "Half past nine! Bedtime! Bona nit!" And all the

youths, after this hint, would leave the house, their footsteps and

their whinnying swallowed up by darkness.

Pepet, as he spoke of these reunions, in which he rubbed elbows with

brave men, wearers of deadly weapons, again bethought him of his

grandfather's knife. When would Don Jaime speak to his father about this

family treasure? Since he had put off asking he must not forget his

promise to present him another knife. What could a man like himself do,

lacking such a companion? Where could he present himself?

"Don't worry," said Febrer. "One of these days I'll go to town. You may

count on the gift."

One morning Jaime started for Iviza, eager for a fresh experience, and

to renew and vary his impressions in a less rural atmosphere. Iviza

seemed to him now like a great city, even to him who had traveled over

all Europe. The houses in a row, the red brick sidewalks, the balconies

with Persian blinds, he admired them all with the simplicity of a savage

from the interior of a desert who arrives at a trading station on the

coast. He paused before the shops, examining the goods exposed with the

same enjoyment with which he used to contemplate the luxurious display

windows on the boulevards or on Regent Street.

The jewelry shop of a Chueta held his attention a long while. He admired

the filigree buttons with a stone in the center, the hollow gold chains

made for the peasant girls, who deemed these objects the most perfect

and marvelous works created by the art of man. Suppose he should go in

and buy a dozen of those buttons! What a surprise for the girl of Can

Mallorqui when he should present them to her for the decoration of her

sleeves! Surely she would accept them from him, a grave gentleman upon

whom she looked with filial respect. Detestable respect! That confounded

gravity of his that hampered him like a crushing burden! But the scion

of the Febrers, the descendant of opulent merchants and heroic

navigators, was forced to resist, thinking of the money stowed away in

his girdle. Probably he did not possess enough to make the purchase.

In another store he acquired a knife for Pepet, the largest and heaviest

he could find, an absurd weapon, capable of making him forget the relic

of his glorious grandfather.

At noon, Febrer, bored by objectless strolling through the ward of the

Marina, and along the steep, narrow streets of the ancient Royal

Fortress, entered a small inn, the only one in the city, situated near

the port. There he met the customary patrons. In the vestibule a few

youths dressed in peasant style, with military caps, soldiers of the

garrison who served as orderlies; within the dining-room, subaltern

officers of a batallion of light infantry, young lieutenants who were

smoking with a bored mien and gazing through the windows at the immense

blue expanse like prisoners of the sea. During the meal they lamented

their bad luck at having their youth wasted by being chained to this

rock. They spoke of Majorca as a place of joy; they recalled the

provinces on the mainland, of which many of them were sons, as paradises

to which they were eager to return. Women! It was a longing, a desire

which made their voices quaver and brought a glow of madness into their

eyes. The chaste Ivizan virtue, the exclusive islander, suspicious of

foreigners, weighed upon them like the chain of an insufferable prison.

There was no trifling with love here; no time was wasted; either hostile

indifference or honest courting with a view to speedy marriage. Words

and smiles led straight to matrimony; association with young girls was

only possible for the purpose of the formation of a new household; and

these lusty youths, gay, abounding in vitality, suffered a tantalizing

torment discussing the most beautiful girls of the island, admiring

them, yet living apart from them, in spite of moving in narrow limits

which forced them to continual meetings. Their dearest hope was to get

leave of absence, so that they might live a few days in Majorca or on

the Peninsula, far from the cold-hearted and virtuous isle, which

accepted the foreigner only as a husband.

Women! Those young bloods talked of nothing else, and seated at the long

table, Febrer silently seconded their words and lamentations. Women! The

irresistible tendency which binds us to them is the only thing that

remains after the moral upheavals which change one's life; the only

thing which remains standing among the ghosts of other illusions

destroyed by the cataclysm. Febrer felt the same disgust as did the

soldiers, the impression of being locked up in a prison of privations,

surrounded by the sea as if it were a moat. Just now the island capital

impressed him as a town of irresistible monotony, with its senoritas

guarded in suspicious and monastic isolation. His mind reverted to the

country as to a place of liberty, with its simple souled and natural

women, restrained only by a defensive instinct like that of primitive

females.

He left the city that same afternoon. Nothing remained of the optimism

of a few hours before. The streets of the Marina were nauseating; an

infectious odor escaped from the houses; in the arroyo buzzed swarms of

insects, rising from the pools at the sound of the footsteps of a

passerby. The recollection of the hills near his tower, perfumed by

sylvan plants and by the salty odor of the sea, seemed to smile in his

memory with idyllic sweetness.

A peasant's cart took him to the vicinity of San Jose, and after leaving

it he started for the mountain, passing between the pine trees bent and

twisted by the storms. The sky was overcast, the atmosphere warm and

heavy. From time to time big drops fell, but before the clouds could

settle into rain a gust of wind seemed to sweep them toward the horizon.

Near a charcoal burner's cabin Jaime saw two women walking rapidly among

the pines. They were Margalida and her mother, coming from Cubells, a

hermitage situated upon a hill on the coast, near a spring, which gave a

vivid green to the abrupt cliffs, and nurtured oranges and palms in the

shelter of the rocks.

Jaime overtook the two women, and next he saw Pepet spring out of the

bushes where he had been walking outside the path, stone in hand,

pursuing a bird whose cries had attracted his attention. They continued

the journey to Can Mallorqui together, and, without realizing how it

happened Febrer found himself in advance, walking by Margalida's side,

while Pep's wife trudged along behind with slow step, leaning on her

son's arm.

The mother was ill; an obscure illness, which caused the doctor on his

rare visits, to shrug his shoulders, and which excited the ambition of

the island healers. They had been to make a promise to the Virgin of

Cubells, and had left on her altar two fluted candles purchased in the

city.

While Margalida talked in a sad voice of the old woman's aches and

pains, the egoism of vigorous youth spurred her on with nervous haste

until her cheeks became suffused with color, and her eyes betrayed a

certain impatience. This was courting day. They must reach Can Mallorqui

in time to prepare an early supper for the family before the suitors

should arrive.

Febrer was admiring her with his serious eyes. He marveled now at the

stupidity which had caused him to think of Margalida for all these

months as a child, as an undeveloped creature, without realizing her

graces. He remembered with scorn those senoritas of the city for whom

the soldiers in the fonda sighed. Again he thought of the courting of

Margalida with an annoyance resembling jealousy. Must this girl fall a

prey to one of those dusky-faced barbarians who would subject her to

slavery of the soil like a beast?

"Margalida!" he murmured, as if about to say something important.

"Margalida!"

But he spoke no more. The old-time rake felt his instincts of

libertinism aroused by the perfume exhaled by this woman, an indefinable

perfume of flesh fresh and virginal, which he thought he inhaled, like a

connoisseur, more with the imagination than through sense of smell. At

the same time--a strange thing for him!--he experienced a timidity which

deprived him of speech; a timidity like that he had felt in his early

youth when, far from the easy conquests on his estate in Majorca, he

ventured to address himself to worldly-wise women on the Continent. Was

it not an unworthy act for him to speak of love to this girl whom he had

considered a child and who respected him as if he were her father?

"Margalida! Margalida!"

After these exclamations, which aroused the girl's curiosity, making her

raise her eyes to fix them questioningly on his, he at last began to

speak, asking her about the progress of the courting. Had she decided

on anyone? Who was to be the lucky man? The Ironworker? the Minstrel?

She lowered her eyes again, in her confusion picking up a corner of her

apron and raising it to her bosom. She did not know. She hesitated and

lisped like a child in her bashfulness. She did not wish to

marry--neither the Minstrel or the Ironworker, nor anybody. She had

acquiesced in the courting because all girls did the same when they

reached a certain age. Besides (here she flushed vividly), it gave her a

kind of satisfaction to humiliate her friends, who were raging with envy

on seeing the great number of her suitors. She was grateful to the

youths who came from great distances to see her, but as for loving one

of them--or marrying----

She had slackened her pace as she spoke. Pep's wife and his son passed

on unconsciously, and as the two were left alone in the path, they at

last stopped, without realizing what they were doing.

"Margalida! Almond Blossom!"

To the devil with shyness! Febrer felt arrogant and masterful as in his

better days. Why this fear? A peasant girl! A child!

He spoke with a firm accent, trying to fascinate her with the

impassioned fixedness of her eyes, drawing near her, as if to caress her

with the music of his words. And how about him? What did Margalida think

of him? What if he should present himself to Pep some day, telling him

that he wished to marry his daughter?

"You!" exclaimed the girl. "You, Don Jaime!"

She raised her eyes fearlessly, laughing at the absurdity--the senor was

accustomed to fooling her with his jests. Her father said that the

Febrers were all as serious as judges, but ever in a good humor. He was

jesting at her expense again, as he had done when he had told about his

clay sweetheart up there in his tower who had been waiting for him a

thousand years.