He arose, picked up his gun, and started for the tower. He was mentally

arranging the programme of his departure. He would not say a word to

anyone. He would wait until some mail steamer from Majorca should touch

at the port of Iviza, and only at the last moment would he tell Pep of

his resolution.

The certainty of soon forsaking this retreat caused him to look with

interest around the tower by the glow of a candle he had lighted. His

shadow, gigantically enlarged, and vacillating in the flickering light,

moved about on the white walls, eclipsing objects which decorated them,

or glinting from the pearly shells or from the gleaming metal of the gun

on its rack.

A familiar grating sound attracted the attention of Febrer, who looked

down the stairway. A man, wrapped in a mantle, stood on the lower steps.

It was Pep.

"Your supper," he said shortly, handing him a basket.

Jaime took it. He saw that the peasant did not wish to talk, and he, for

his part, felt a certain fear of breaking the silence.

"Good-night!"

Pep started on his return journey after this brief salutation, like a

respectful but angry servant who only allows himself the indispensable

words with his master.

Jaime set the basket upon the table and closed the door. He had no

appetite; he would eat his supper later. He caught up a rustic pipe,

carved by a peasant from a branch of cherry, filled it with tobacco and

began to smoke, following with distracted eyes the winding spirals,

whose subtle blue assumed a rainbow transparency before the candle.

Then he took a book and tried to fix his mind upon it, but he could not

concentrate his attention.

Outside this husk of stone night reigned, a night dark and filled with

mystery. This solemn silence, which fell from on high, and in which the

slightest sounds seemed to acquire terrifying proportions, as if the

murmur were listening to its own self, appeared to filter through the

very walls.

Febrer thought he heard the circulation of his blood in this profound

calm; from time to time he caught the scream of a gull, or the momentary

swaying of the tamarisks in a gust of wind, a rustling like that of

theatrical mobs concealed behind the wings. From the ceiling resounded

at intervals the monotonous cric-cric of a wood-borer gnawing the beams

with incessant toil which passed unheeded during the day. The sea filled

the darkness with a gentle moan whose undulations broke on all the

projections and windings of the coast.

Suddenly, Febrer, who sat silently listening with a quiet resembling

that of timid children who are afraid to turn over in bed in order not

to augment the mystery which surrounds them, stirred in his chair.

Something extraordinary rent the air, dominating with its stridor the

confused sounds of night. It was a cry, a howl, a whinny, one of those

hostile, mocking voices with which vengeful youths call one another in

the shadows.

Jaime felt an impulse to arise, to run to the door, but something held

him motionless. The traditional cry of challenge had sounded some

distance away. They must be young bloods of the district who had chosen

the vicinity of the Pirate's Tower to meet, weapon in hand. That was

not intended for him; in the morning the event would be explained.

He opened his book again, intending to amuse himself by reading, but

after a few lines he sprang from his chair, flinging the volume and his

pipe upon the table.

A-u-u-u-u! The whinny of challenge, the hostile and mocking cry, had

resounded again, almost at the foot of the stairway, prolonged by the

strong draft of a pair of bellows-like lungs. At the same instant the

harsh noise of opening wings whistled in the dark; the marine birds,

aroused from sleep, flew out from among the rocks to seek a new shelter.

This call was meant for him! Someone had come to challenge him at his

very door! He glanced at his gun; with his right hand he felt the steel

of the revolver in his belt, warmed by contact with his body; he took

two steps toward the door, but he stopped and shrugged his shoulders

with a smile of resignation. He was no native of the island; he did not

understand this language of yells, and he considered himself superior to

such provocations.

He returned to his chair and picked up his book, making an effort to

smile.

"Yell, my good fellow, shriek, howl! My sympathy is with you, you may

catch cold in the night air while I am here in my house taking things

easy!"

This mocking complacency, however, was only on the surface. The howl

rent the air again, not at the foot of the stairway now, but farther

off, perhaps among the tamarisks which grew around the tower. The

challenger seemed to have settled down to wait for Febrer to come out.

Who could it be? Perhaps the miserable Ironworker--the man-slayer, whom

he had been seeking that afternoon; perhaps the Minstrel, who had

publicly sworn to kill him immediately. Night and cunning, which

equalize the forces of enemies, might have given courage to the sick boy

to appear against him. It was also possible that there might be two or

more lying in wait for him.

Another howl sounded, but Jaime shrugged his shoulders again. His

unknown challenger might howl as long as he wished.

Reading was now out of the question! It was useless to pretend

tranquillity!

The challenges were repeated fiercely now, like the crowing of an

infuriated rooster. Jaime imagined the neck of the man, swollen,

reddened, the tendons vibrating with anger. The guttural cry gradually

acquired the inflection and the significance of language. It was ironic,

mocking, insulting; it taunted the foreigner for his prudence; it seemed

to call him a coward.

He tried not to hear. A mist formed before his eyes; it seemed as if the

candle had gone out; in the intervals of silence the blood hummed in his

ears. He remembered that Can Mallorqui was not far away, and that

perhaps Margalida stood trembling at her little window, listening to the

cries near the tower, wherein was a timid man, hearing them also, but

with barred door, as if he were deaf.

No; it was enough! This time he flung his book definitively upon the

table, and then, as by instinct, scarcely knowing what he did, he blew

out the candle. He took a few steps, with hands outstretched, completely

forgetting the plans of attack he had hastily conceived a few moments

before. Anger transformed his ideas. In this sudden blindness of spirit

he had but one thought, like a final splutter from a vanishing light.

Now he touched the gun with palpitating hands, but he did not pick it

up. He must have a less embarrassing weapon; perhaps he would need to go

down and make his way through the bushes.

He tugged at his belt, and his revolver slipped out of its hiding place

with the ease of a warm and silky animal. He groped in the dark toward

the door and cautiously opened it, barely wide enough to get his head

through, the heavy hinges creaking faintly.

Emerging suddenly from the darkness of his room to the diffused clarity

of the sidereal light, he saw the clump of bushes near the tower, and

farther on, the dim white farmhouse, and opposite stood the black hump

of the mountains piercing the sky, in which flickered the stars. This

vision lasted but an instant; he could see no more. Suddenly two tiny

flashes, two serpents; of fire leaped from the bushes, one after the

other, cutting luminous streaks through the dark, followed by two almost

simultaneous reports.

Jaime perceived an acrid odor of burnt powder. At the same time he felt

just above his scalp a numbing, violent shock, something abnormal, which

seemed to touch him, and yet not touch him, the sensation of a blow from

a stone. Something dropped upon his face like a light, impalpable

shower. Blood? Earth?

The surprise lasted only an instant. Someone behind the bushes close to

the stairway had fired at him. The enemy was there--there! In the

darkness he saw the point from which the flashes had emerged, and,

reaching his right arm outside the door, he fired, one, two, five times;

all the cartridges contained in the cylinder.

He fired almost blindly, uncertain of his aim in the dark, and trembling

with anger. A faint sound of crashing branches, an almost imperceptible

undulation in the bushes, filled him with savage joy. He had hit the

enemy undoubtedly, and he raised his hand to his head to convince

himself that he was not wounded.

As he passed his fingers over his face something small and granulated

fell from his cheeks. It was not blood; it was sand, dust, and mortar.

He felt along the wall just above his head and discovered two small,

funnel-like holes, still warm. The two balls had grazed his scalp, and

had lodged in the wall, an almost imperceptible distance above his head.

Febrer was rejoiced at his good luck. He, safe, unharmed; but his enemy,

how about him? Where was he at that moment? Ought he to go down and

search among the tamarisks for him, to taunt him in his agony? Suddenly

the shout was repeated, the savage howl, far, very far away, somewhere

near the farmhouse; a howl triumphant, mocking, which Jaime interpreted

as an announcement of an early return.

The dog of Can Mallorqui, aroused by the gunshots, was barking dismally.

Other dogs in the distance answered. The howling of the man moved

farther away, with incessant repetitions, steadily growing more remote,

more faint, merging into the mysterious night.

CHAPTER III

THE CHALLENGE IN THE NIGHT

No sooner had day dawned than the Little Chaplain appeared at the tower.

He had heard everything. His father, who was a heavy sleeper, had

perhaps not yet been informed of the event. The dog might bark, and a

fierce battle might rage near the farmhouse, but good old Pep, when he

went to bed, tired out with his day's work, became as insensible as a

dead man. The other members of the family had spent a night of anguish.

His mother, after several attempts to arouse her husband, with no better

success than to draw forth incoherent mumbling, followed by yet louder

snoring, had spent the night praying for the soul of the senor of the

tower, believing him dead. Margalida, who slept near her brother, had

called him in a stifled and agonized voice when the first shots rang

out: "Do you hear, Pepet?"

The poor girl had arisen and lighted the candle, by the dim radiance of

which the boy had seen her pale face and terrified eyes. Forgetting

everything, she had flung her arms about, lifting her hands to her head.

"They have killed Don Jaime! My heart tells me that they have!" She

trembled at the echo of the fresh shots. "A regular rosary of reports,"

according to the Little Chaplain, had answered the first discharges.

"That was you, wasn't it, Don Jaime?" continued the boy. "I recognized

your pistol at once, and so I said to Margalida. I remember that

afternoon you shot off your revolver on the beach. I have a good ear for

such things."

Then he told of his sister's despair; how she had gathered her clothing,

intending to dress so that she might rush to the tower. Pepet would

accompany her. Then, suddenly becoming timid, she refused to go. She did

nothing but weep, and she would not allow the boy to make his escape by

climbing over the barnyard fence.

They had heard the howling near the farmhouse, some time after the

shooting, and, as he spoke of this war-cry, the boy smiled

mischievously. Then Margalida, suddenly tranquilized by her brother's

words, had become silent, but during the whole night the Little Chaplain

heard sighs of anguish and a gentle whispering as of a low voice

murmuring words and words with tireless monotony. She was praying.

Then, when daylight came, everyone arose except his father, who

continued his placid sleep. As the women timidly peeped out from the

porch, full of gloomy thoughts, they expected to behold a terrifying

picture--the tower in ruins, and the Majorcan's corpse lying above the

wreck. But the Little Chaplain had laughed on seeing the door open, and

near it, as on other mornings, Don Jaime, with naked chest, splashing in

a tank which he himself brought from the beach filled with sea water.

He had not been mistaken when he laughed at the women's terror. No one

living could kill his Don Jaime--that was what he said, and he knew

something of men.

Then, after Jaime's brief account of the events of the night before,

screwing up his eyes with the expression of a very wise person, Pepet

examined the two holes made in the wall by the bullets.

"And your head was here, where mine is? Futro!"

His eyes reflected admiration, devout idolatry, for this wonderful man,

whose life had just been saved by a veritable miracle.

Trusting in his knowledge of the people of the country, Febrer

questioned the boy about the supposed aggressor, and the Little Chaplain

smiled with an air of importance. He had heard the war-cry. It was the

Minstrel's manner of howling; many might have imagined it was he. He

howled that way at the serenades, at the afternoon dances, and on coming

away from a wooing.

"But it was not he, Don Jaime; I am sure! If anyone should ask the

Minstrel he would be free to say 'Yes,' just to give himself importance.

But it was the other, the Ironworker; I recognized his voice, and so did

Margalida!"

In continuation, with a grave expression, as if he wished to test the

Majorcan's mettle, he spoke of the silly fear of the women, who declared

that the Civil Guard of San Jose must be notified.

"You won't do that, will you, Don Jaime? That would be foolish. The

police are only needed by cowards."

The deprecatory smile, and the shrug of the shoulders with which Febrer

answered him, reassured the boy.

"I was certain of that; it's not the custom on the island--but, as you

are a foreigner--you are right; every man should defend himself; that's

what he's a man for; and in case of need, he counts on his friends."

As he said this, he strutted about, as if to call attention to the

powerful aid on which Don Jaime might count in moments of danger.

The Little Chaplain wished to work this situation to his own advantage,

and he advised the senor that it would be a good idea to have him come

and live in the tower. If Don Jaime were to ask Senor Pep, it would be

impossible for his father to refuse. It would be well for Don Jaime to

have him near; then there would be two for the defense; and, to

strengthen his petition, he recalled his father's anger and the

certainty that he intended to take him to Iviza at the beginning of next

week, to shut him up in the Seminary. What would the senor do when he

found himself deprived of his best friend?

In his desire to demonstrate the value of his presence, he censured

Febrer's forgetfulness of the night before. Who would think of opening

the door and looking out when someone was there with weapon prepared,

challenging him? It was a miracle that he had not been killed. What

about the lesson he had given him? Did he not remember his advice about

climbing down from the window, at the back of the tower, to surprise the

enemy?

"That is true," said Jaime, really ashamed at his forgetfulness.

The Little Chaplain, who was proudly enjoying the effect of this advice,

started with surprise as he looked through the doorway.

"My father!"

Pep was slowly climbing the hill, his arms clasped behind his back,

seemingly in deep meditation. The boy became alarmed at the sight of

him. Undoubtedly he was very cross over the latest news; it would not be

well for them to meet just now, and repeating once again the

advisability of Febrer's having him as a companion, he flung his legs

out of the window, turning upon his belly, resting a second on the sill,

and disappeared down the side of the wall.

The peasant entered the tower and spoke without emotion of the

happenings of the night before, as if this were a normal event which but

slightly altered the monotony of country life. The women had told

him--he was such a heavy sleeper----. So it had not amounted to

anything?

He listened, with lowered eyes, twiddling his thumbs, to the brief tale.

Then he went to the door to examine the two bullet holes.

"A miracle, Don Jaime, a genuine miracle."

He returned to his chair, remaining motionless a long time, as if it

cost him a great effort to make his dull mind operate.

"The devil has broken loose, senor. It was sure to happen; I told you

so. When a man makes up his mind to have the impossible, everything goes

wrong, and there's an end to peace."

Then, raising his head, he fixed his cold, scrutinizing eyes on Don

Jaime. They would have to notify the alcalde; they must tell the whole

business to the Civil Guard.

Febrer made a negative gesture. No, this was an affair between men,

which he would handle himself.

Pep sat with his eyes fixed enigmatically on the senor, as if struggling

with opposing ideas.

"You are right," said the phlegmatic peasant.

Foreigners usually had other notions, but he was glad that the senor

said the same as would his poor father (may he rest in peace!). Everyone

on the island thought the same; the old way was the best way.

Then Pep, without consulting the senor, exposed his plan for helping in

the defense. It was a duty of friendship. He had his gun at home. He had

not used it for some time, but when he was young, during the lifetime of

his famous father (may he rest in peace!) he had been a fair shot. He

would come and spend the nights in the tower, to keep Don Jaime company,

so that he should not be taken unaware.

Neither was the peasant surprised at the firm negative of the senor, who

seemed to be offended by the proposition. He was a man, not a boy,

needing companionship. Let everyone sleep in his own house, and let

happen what fate decreed!

Pep assented also with nods of his head to these words. The same would

his father have said, and like him all good people who followed ancient

customs. Febrer seemed a true son of the island. Then, softened by the

admiration this courage of Don Jaime's inspired in him, he proposed

another arrangement. Since the senor did not wish company in his tower,

he might come down to Can Mallorqui to sleep. They could fix him up a

bed somewhere.

Febrer felt tempted by the opportunity to see Margalida, but the tone of

weakness in which the father gave the invitation, and the anxious glance

with which he awaited a reply, caused him to refuse.

"No, thank you very much, Pep. I will stay here in the tower. They might

think I had moved down to your house because I was afraid."

The peasant nodded assent. He understood. He would do the same in a like

situation. But Pep would try to sleep less at night, and if he heard

shouts or shots near the tower he would come out with his old fire-lock.

As if this self-imposed obligation of sleeping on guard, ready to

expose his skin in defense of his old-time patron broke the calm in

which he had maintained himself until then, the peasant raised his eyes

and clasped his hands.

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!

"The devil is let loose!" he repeated, "there will be no more peace; and

all for not believing what I told you, for going against the current of

old customs, which have been established by wiser people than those of

the present day. And what is all this leading to?"

Febrer tried to reassure the peasant, and a thought escaped him which he

had intended to keep concealed. Pep might rejoice. He was going to leave

forever, not wishing to disturb the peace of himself and family.

Ah! was the senor really going away? The peasant's joy was so keen, and

his surprise so lively that Jaime hesitated. He seemed to see in the

peasant's little eyes a certain malice. Did the islander imagine that

his sudden determination was caused by fear of his enemies?

"I am going," he said, looking at Pep with hostility, "but I am not sure

when. Later--when it suits my convenience. I can't leave here until the

man who is looking for me finds me."

Pep made a gesture of resignation; his gladness vanished, but he was

about to assent to these words also, adding that thus would his father

have done, and thus he himself thought best.

When the peasant arose to take his leave, Febrer, who was standing near

the door, saw the Little Chaplain by the farmhouse, and this recalled

the boy's desire to his mind. If the request would not put Pep out, he

might let the youngster keep him company in the tower.

But the father received this suggestion with displeasure.

No, Don Jaime! If he needed company, here he was himself, a man! The

boy must study. The devil was let loose, and it was high time to impose

his authority so that order should be maintained in the family. Next

week he intended taking him back to the Seminary. That was final.

On being left alone Febrer went down to the beach. Uncle Ventolera was

caulking the seams of his beached boat with tow and pitch. Lying in it

as if it were an enormous coffin, with his weak eyes he sought out the

leaks, and on finding one he would begin singing his Latin jargon in a

loud voice.

Feeling the boat move and seeing the senor leaning over the edge, the

old man smiled with amusement, and ended his canticles.

"Holloa, Don Jaime!"

Uncle Ventolera was informed of everything. The women of Can Mallorqui

had told him the news, and by this time it had circulated all over the

district, but only from ear to ear, as these things must be spoken in

order to keep them from the police who muddle everything. So someone had

come after him the night before, challenging him to step outside the

tower? He, he, he! The same thing had happened to him in times gone by,

when, between voyages, he was making love to the girl he married. A

certain comrade who had become a rival had howled at him; but he had

gotten the girl, because he was the more clever; to sum it all up, he

had given his friend a stab in the breast, which held him for a long

time between life and death. Then he had lived on his guard whenever he

was in port, to avoid the vengeance of his enemy; but the years pass,

old grudges are forgotten, and finally the two comrades took up the

smuggling trade together, sailing from Algiers to Iviza, or along the

Spanish main.

Uncle Ventolera laughed with a childish giggle, enjoying these

recollections of his youth, recalling the memory of shooting scrapes,

stabbing affrays, and provocations in the night. Alas! No one challenged

him any more! This was only for young bloods. His accent betrayed

melancholy at being no longer mixed up in these affairs of love and war,

which he judged indispensable to a happy existence.

Febrer left the old man singing mass as he went on with his task of

repairing the boat. In the tower he found the basket containing his

supper upon the table. The Little Chaplain had left it without waiting,

obeying, no doubt, some urgent call of the ill-humored father. After

eating, Jaime went out again to examine the two holes which the

projectiles had made in the wall. Now that the excitement of the danger

was over, and he coldly appreciated the gravity of the situation, he

felt a vengeful anger, more intense than that which had impelled him to

rush to the door the night before. Had his enemy aimed a few millimeters

lower, he would have rolled into obscurity, at the foot of the steps,

like a hunted beast. Cristo! And could a man of his class die thus, the

victim of treachery, ambushed by one of these rustics!

His anger assumed a vengeful impulse; he felt the necessity of taking

the offensive, of making his appearance, serene and threatening, in the

presence of the men among whom were numbered some of his adversaries.

He took down his gun, examined the action, slung it over his shoulder

and descended from the tower, taking the same road as on the previous

afternoon. As he passed Can Mallorqui the barking of the dog brought

Margalida and her mother to the door. The men were in a distant field

which Pep was cultivating. The mother, tearful, and with her words

broken by sobs, could only grasp the senor's hands.

"Don Jaime! Don Jaime!"

He must be very careful, he must stay close in his tower, and be

constantly on guard against his enemies. Margalida, silent, her eyes

extraordinarily wide open, gazed at Febrer, revealing admiration and

anxiety. She did not know what to say; her simple soul seemed to shrink

humbly within itself, finding no words to express her thoughts.

Jaime continued on his way. Several times he turned and saw Margalida

standing on the porch, looking after him anxiously. The senor was going

hunting, as he had done before, but, ay! he was taking the mountain

trail; he was going to the pine forest where stood the forge.

During his walk Febrer thought over plans of attack. He was determined

to try conclusions at once. The moment that the man-slayer should appear

at the door of his house, he would let him have the two shots from his

gun. He, Jaime Febrer, carried on his business in the light of day, and

he would be more fortunate; his balls would not lodge in the wall!

When he arrived at the forge he found it closed. Nobody at home! The

Ironworker had disappeared; neither was the old woman there to receive

him with the hostile glare of her single eye.

He seated himself at the foot of the tree as before, his gun ready,

sheltered behind the trunk, in case this apparent desertion of the

premises was only a trick. A long time passed. The wild doves,

emboldened by the stillness of the surrounding forge, fluttered about in

the little clearing unheeding the motionless hunter. A cat crept

cautiously over the rickety roof, and crouched like a tiger, trying to

capture the restless sparrows.

Delay and inaction calmed Febrer. What was he doing here, far from home,

in the heart of the forest, twilight about to fall, lying in wait for an

enemy of whose active hostility he had only vague suspicions? Perhaps

the Ironworker had locked himself in his house on seeing him approach,

so that further waiting would be useless. It might be that he and the

old woman had gone on some long excursion and might not return until

night. He must go!

Gun in hand, ready to attack in case he should meet the enemy, he began

his return to the valley.

Once more he passed the fields and again he met the peasants and the

girls, who looked at him with eager curiosity, barely replying to his

greeting. Again, in the same place as before, he met the Minstrel with

his bandaged head, surrounded by friends to whom he was talking with

violent gesticulations. When he recognized the senor of the tower,

before his comrades could prevent him, he bent down to the hardened

furrows of the earth and picked up two stones and flung them at him.

These missiles, thrown by a forceless arm, did not make half their

intended journey. Then, exasperated by the contemptuous serenity of

Febrer, who continued on his way, the boy broke into threats. He would

kill the Majorcan; he declared it at the top of his voice! Let them all

hear that he had sworn to destroy this man!

Jaime smiled gloomily. No; the angry lamb was not the one who had come

to the Pirate's Tower to kill him. His outrageous boasting was enough to

prove that.

The senor spent a peaceful evening. After supper, when Margalida's

brother had said good night, depressed by the certainty that his father

would never desist from his determination of taking him back to the

Seminary, Jaime closed the door, piling the table and chairs against

it. He did not intend to be surprised while he was asleep. He blew out

the light and sat smoking in the dark, amusing himself by watching the

tiny brand on the end of his cigar widen and shrink as he drew upon it.

His gun was near him and his revolver was in his belt ready for use at

the slightest sound at the door. His ear was habituated to the murmurs

of the night and to the surging of the sea, but he sought beyond them

for some sound, some evidence that in this lonely retreat there were

other human beings than himself.

Finally he looked at the face of his watch by the light of his cigar.

Ten o'clock! Far away he heard barking, and Jaime thought he recognized

the dog of Can Mallorqui. Perhaps it indicated the passing of someone on

his way to the tower. Now the enemy might be near. It was not unlikely

that he was dragging himself cautiously outside the path among the

tamarisks.

He arose, reaching for his gun, feeling in his belt for his revolver. As

soon as he should hear a cry of challenge, or a voice near the door, he

would climb out of the window, make his way cautiously around the tower,

and get behind the enemy.

More time passed. Still nothing! Febrer wished to look at his watch, but

his hands would not obey his will. The ruddy point no longer glowed on

the end of his cigar. His head had at last fallen back upon the pillow;

his eyes closed; he heard cries of challenge, shots, curses, but it was

in his dreams, as if in another world, where insults and attacks do not

arouse one's sensibilities. Then--nothing! A dense shadow, a night of

profound sleep. He was awakened by a ray of sunshine which filtered

through a crack in the window and shone upon his eyes. The morning light

again brought into relief the whiteness of the walls which during the

night seemed to sweat the shadows and barbaric mysteries of former

centuries.

Jaime arose in good spirits, and as he removed the barricade of

furniture which obstructed the doorway, he laughed, somewhat ashamed of

his precautions, considering them almost a sign of cowardice. The women

of Can Mallorqui had worked upon his nerves with their fears. Who would

be likely to seek him in his tower, knowing that he was on the alert and

would meet a trespasser with shots! The Ironworker's absence when Jaime

had presented himself at the forge, and the calm of the night before,

gave food for thought. Was the man-slayer wounded? Had some of Jaime's

balls reached their mark?

He spent the morning on the sea. Tio Ventolera took him to the Vedra,

praising the lightness and other merits of his boat. He repaired it year

after year, not a splinter of its original construction being left in

it. They fished in the shelter of the rocks until mid-afternoon. On

their way back Febrer saw the Little Chaplain running along the beach

waving something white.

Before landing, while the prow of the boat was scraping along the

gravel, the boy called to him with the impatience of one who has great

news:

"A letter, Don Jaime!"

A letter! Actually, in that remote corner of the world, the most

extraordinary event that could disturb the everyday life was the arrival

of a letter. Febrer turned it over in his hands, examining it as

something strange and rare. He looked at the seal, then at the address

on the envelope.... He recognized it--it aroused in his memory the same

impression as a familiar face with which we cannot associate a name.

From whom was it?

Meanwhile the Little Chaplain gave detailed explanations of the great

event. The letter had been brought by the foot postman in the middle of

the morning. It had come by the mail steamer from Palma, arriving in

Iviza the night before. If he wished to answer it he must do so without

loss of time. The boat would return to Majorca the following day.

On his way to the tower Jaime broke the seal and looked for the

signature. Almost at the same moment his recollection grew clear and a

name surged to his mind--Pablo Valls! Captain Pablo had written to him

after a year of silence, and his letter was long, several sheets of

commercial paper covered with close writing!

At the first few lines the Majorcan smiled. The captain himself seemed

there in those written words, with his vigorous and exuberant

personality, turbulent, kindly, and aggressive. Febrer almost saw in the

page before him his enormous, heavy nose, his gray whiskers, his eyes

the color of oil speckled with flecks of tobacco color, his dented,

chambergo hat thrust on the back of his head.

The letter began, "Dear, shameless, fellow;" and the opening paragraphs

continued in the same style.

"Something worth while," he murmured, smiling. "I must read this

leisurely."

He put it in his pocket with the eagerness of one who sharpens a

pleasure by deferring it. Jaime climbed to the tower, after taking leave

of the boy.

He seated himself near the window, his chair tilted back against the

table, and began to read. An explosion of mock fury, of affectionate

insults, of indignation over events Jaime had actually forgotten, filled

the first pages. Pablo Valls overflowed with amusing incoherency, like a

charlatan condemned for a long time to silence who suffers the torture

of his repressed verbosity. He flung into Febrer's face his origin and

his pride, which had impelled him to run away without telling his

friends good-bye. "In the last analysis you are descended from a race of

inquisitors." His ancestors had burned the ancestors of Valls; let him

not forget that! But the good must distinguish themselves from the bad

in some way, and so he, the reprobate, the Chueta, the heretic hated by

everybody, had responded to this lack of friendship by busying himself

with Jaime's affairs. Very likely he had already heard about this

through his friend Toni Clapes, whose business was thriving, as usual,

although he had suffered some set-backs of late. Two of his vessels

carrying cargoes of tobacco had been captured.

"But--to the gist of the matter! You know that I'm a practical man, a

regular Englishman, an enemy to the wasting of time."

And the practical man, the "Englishman," in order to waste no words,

covered two pages more with the explosions of his indignation at

everything around him; at his racial brothers, timid and humble, who

covered the hand of the enemy with kisses; at the descendants of the

old-time persecutors; at the ferocious Padre Garau, of whom not even

dust remained; against the whole island, the famous Roqueta, to which

his people were held in subjection through love for its soil, a love

returned with ostracism and insults.

"But let us not waste words; order, method, and clarity! Above all let

us write practically. Lack of practical character is our ruination."

Finally he came to the Popess Juana, that imposing senora, whom Pablo

Valls had only seen at a distance, as he seemed to her the

personification of all the revolutionary impieties and of all the sins

of his race. "There is no hope for you in that direction." Febrer's

aunt remembered him only to lament his bad end and to praise the justice

of the Lord, who punishes those who travel crooked paths, and depart

from sacred family traditions. Sometimes the good lady thought him in

Iviza; again she declared she knew for a certainty that her nephew had

been seen in America, engaged in the meanest employments. "Anyway, whelp

of an inquisitor, your pious aunt will not remember you, and you need

not expect the slightest assistance from her." It was now being

whispered about the city that, definitely renouncing the pomps of this

world and perhaps even the pontifical Golden Rose, which never arrived,

she was about to turn over all her property to the priests of her court,

going to shut herself up in a convent, with all the advantages of a

privileged lady. The Popess was going away forever; it was impossible to

expect anything from her. "And here is where I come in, young Garau: I,

the reprobate, the Chueta, the long-tailed, who desire to be reverenced

and adored by you as if you were Providence himself."

Finally the practical man, the enemy of useless words, fulfilled his

promise, and the style of the letter became concise, with a commercial

dryness. First a long statement of the properties still possessed by

Jaime at the time of his leaving Majorca, burdened with all manner of

incumbrances and mortgages; then a list of his creditors, which was

longer than that of his properties, followed by lists of interest due

and other obligations, an entangled skein in which Febrer's mind became

wholly confused, but through which Valls made direct headway, with the

confidence of those of his race for disentangling jumbled business

affairs.

Captain Pablo had allowed half a year to pass without writing to his

friend, but he had occupied himself daily over his affairs. He had

haggled with the most ferocious usurers of the island, insulting some,

outwitting others in finesse, resorting to persuasion or to bravado,

advancing money to satisfy the more urgent creditors, who threatened

attachment. In conclusion, he had left his friend's fortune free and

sound, but it emerged from the terrible battle shrunken and

comparatively insignificant. There only remained to Febrer some

thousands of duros; perhaps it would not amount to fifteen thousand, but

this was better than to live in his former position as a gran senor

without anything to eat, and subjected to the persecution of his

creditors. "It is time that you come home! What are you doing there? Are

you going to spend the rest of your life like a Robinson Crusoe, in that

pirate's tower?" He could live modestly; living is cheap in Majorca.

Besides, he could solicit an office from the Government. With his name

and pedigree it would not be difficult to accomplish that. He might

devote himself to commerce under the direction and advice of a man like

himself. If he wished to travel it would not be difficult for Valls to

secure him a position in Algiers, in England, or in America. The captain

had friends everywhere. "Come back soon, young Garau, dear old

inquisitor. I have no more to say."

Febrer spent the rest of the afternoon reading the letter or strolling

about the environs of the tower, deeply stirred by this news.

Recollections of his past existence, dimmed by his rural and solitary

life, stood out now with the same vividness as if they were the events

of yesterday. The cafes on the Borne, his friends in the Casino! How

strange to return there, passing at a bound into city life after his

half savage seclusion in the tower! He would go at once! His mind was

made up! He would start the next morning, taking advantage of the

return trip of the same steamer which had brought the letter.

The memory of Margalida rose in his mind as if to detain him on the

island. She appeared in his imagination with her white face, her

adorable figure, her timid and lowered eyes, which seemed to conceal the

dark ardor of her pupils as if it were a sin. Should he leave her? Never

see her again? Then she would become the wife of one of those rough

peasants who would make no better use of her beauty than to waste it in

daily tasks in the field, gradually converting her into a farm animal,

black, calloused, and wrinkled!

A pessimistic thought soon aroused him from this cruel doubt. Margalida

did not love him; she could not love him. Disconcerting silence and

mysterious tears were the only response he had succeeded in eliciting by

his declarations of love. Why should he persist in trying to conquer

that which seemed to everybody to be impossible? Why continue the

senseless struggle against the whole island for a woman he was not as

yet sure loved him?

The joy of the recent news turned Febrer into a skeptic. "Nobody dies of

love." Yet it would cost him a great effort to abandon this country on

the morrow; he would experience profound sorrow when the African

whiteness of Can Mallorqui should fade from his view, but, once he had

shaken himself free of the atmosphere of the island, no longer living

among rustics, and had gone back to his old life, perhaps Margalida

would linger only as a vague memory, and he would be the first to laugh

at this passion for a peasant girl, the daughter of a former retainer of

his family.

He hesitated no longer. He would spend the night in the solitude of his

tower, like a primitive man, one of those who live lying in ambush

against danger, ready to kill. Tomorrow night he would be seated at a

table in a cafe beneath the light of an electric chandelier, seeing

carriages beside the pavements, and gazing at women more beautiful than

Margalida strolling along the Paseo del Borne. Back to Majorca, then! He

would not live in a palace; the Febrer mansion he would lose forever,

according to the arrangement made by his friend Valls; but he would not

fail to have a neat little house in the ward of Terreno or somewhere

near the sea, and in it the motherly care of Mammy Antonia. No sorrow,

no shame would await him there. He would even be rid of the presence of

Don Benito Valls and his daughter, from whom he had so discourteously

fled, without a word of excuse. The rich Chueta, according to his

brother's letter, now lived in Barcelona for the sake of his health, so

he said; but undoubtedly, as Captain Pablo believed, this journey was

taken for the purpose of finding a son-in-law unhampered by the

prejudices which persecuted those of his race on the Island.

As night closed in the Little Chaplain came with his basket of supper.

While Febrer was greedily eating, with the appetite aroused by his

gladsome news, the boy's eager eyes roved about the room to see if he

could discover the letter which had so piqued his curiosity. Nothing was

in sight. The senor's good spirits finally enlivened him also, and he

laughed without knowing why, feeling obliged to be in a good humor since

Don Jaime was so.

Febrer joked him about his approaching return to the Seminary. He was

thinking of making him a present, an extraordinary gift, he could never

guess what; compared to it the knife would be worthless. As he said

this his eyes traveled toward the gun hanging on the wall.

When the boy took his leave Febrer closed the door and diverted himself

by taking an inventory and making a distribution of the objects which

filled his dwelling. Within an old crudely carved wooden chest, laid

away between fragrant herbs, was the clothing carefully folded by

Margalida in which he had come to Majorca. He would put them on in the

morning. He thought with a kind of terror of the torture of the boots

and the torment of the stiff collar after his long season of rustic

freedom, but he intended to leave the island as he had come to it.

Everything else he would present to Pep, except the gun, which would go

to his son; he smiled as he thought of the expression of the young

seminarist when he should receive this gift, which came rather late. By

the time he could go hunting with it he would be a priest of one of the

island districts.

He drew Valls' letter from his pocket again, taking pleasure in reading

it over and over, as if each time he found fresh items of interest.

While reading these paragraphs, which were already familiar, his mind

was dwelling on the good news. His loyal friend Pablo! How timely was

his advice! It called him from Iviza at the most opportune instant, when

he was in open war with all these rude people, who were eager for the

death of the stranger. The captain was right. What was he doing there,

like a new Robinson Crusoe, and one who could not even enjoy the peace

of solitude? Valls, opportune, as ever, delivered him from his danger.

His life of a few hours before, when he had not yet received the letter,

seemed to him absurd and ridiculous. He was a new man now. He smiled

with shame and pity for that mad man who, the day before, with his gun

across his shoulder, had journeyed up the mountain to seek a former

prisoner, challenging him to a barbarous duel in the solitude of the

forest, as if all the life of the planet were concentrated on this

little island and one must kill in order to live! As if there were no

life nor civilization beyond the sheet of blue which surrounded this bit

of land, with its primitive-souled inhabitants clinging to the customs

of former centuries! What folly! This was to be the last night of his

savage existence. On the morrow everything which had occurred would be

but an interesting recollection, with tales of which he could entertain

his friends on the Borne.

Febrer suddenly cut the trend of these thoughts, raising his eyes from

the paper. As his gaze encountered half the room in shadow and the other

half in a ruddy glow, which made objects flicker and tremble, he seemed

to return from the long journey on which his imagination had drawn him.

He was still living in the Pirate's Tower; he was still in the midst of

darkness, of solitude peopled with whispers of Nature, in the interior

of a cube of stone, the walls of which seemed to sweat dark mystery.

He had heard something outside; a cry, a howl, different from that of

the other night, more stifled, more indistinct. Jaime received the

impression that the cry came from very near, that perhaps it was uttered

by someone hidden in the clusters of tamarisks.

He concentrated his attention and the howl came again. It was the same

wild yell he had heard the other night, but low, repressed, hoarse, as

if he who uttered it feared that the cry would scatter too much, and had

placed his hands around his mouth in order to send it directly by means

of this natural trumpet.

His first surprise subsided, he laughed softly, shrugging his

shoulders. He did not intend to stir. What did primitive customs matter

to him now, these peasant challenges? "Howl, my good man; yell until

you're tired! I'm deaf!"

To divert his mind he returned to the reading of his letter, enjoying

with particular zest the long list of creditors, many of whose names

evoked choleric visions or grotesque recollections.

The howl continued at long intervals, and each time that the hoarse

stridency pierced the silence Febrer thrilled with impatience and

choler. Must he spend the whole night without sleep on account of this

serenade of threats?

It occurred to him that perhaps the enemy concealed in the bushes saw

his light through the cracks of the door and that this caused him to

persist in his provocations. He blew out the candle and laid down on the

bed, experiencing a sensation of comfort at being in the dark, with his

back sunk into the soft, yielding mattress. That barbarian might howl

for hours, or until he lost his voice. He did not intend to stir. What

did the insults matter to him now? And he laughed with a joy of physical

comfort, lying in his soft couch, while the other was making himself

hoarse out there in the bushes, with his weapon ready and his eye alert.

What a disappointment for the enemy!

Febrer was almost lulled to sleep by these cries of challenge. He had

barricaded the door as he had done the night before. As long as the

shouts continued he knew that he was in no danger. Suddenly, by a

supreme effort, he sat up, flinging off a stupor which preceded sleep.

He no longer heard howls. It was the mystery of silence which had

awakened him, a silence more threatening and disquieting than the

hostile shouts.

By listening intently he thought he could perceive a movement, a faint

creaking of wood, something like the insignificant weight of a cat

creeping from step to step, climbing up the stairway to the tower, with

long intervals of waiting.

Jaime felt for his revolver, and he sat holding it with a tight clutch.

The weapon seemed to tremble between his fingers. He began to feel the

anger of the strong man who realizes the presence of an enemy at his

door.

The cautious ascent ceased, perhaps half way up the stairs, and after a

long silence, Febrer heard a low voice, a voice meant for him alone. It

was the voice of the Ironworker. It invited him to step outside, it

called him coward, uniting to this insult outrageous indignities against

the detested isle of Majorca where Jaime was born.

Jaime sprang from his couch with a sudden impulse, the springs creaking

loudly beneath him. As he arose to his feet in the dark, with his

revolver in his hand, he began, to feel nothing but scorn for his

challenger. Why heed him? It were better to go back to bed. There was a

long pause, as if the enemy, when he heard the creaking springs, stood

waiting for the inhabitant of the tower to come out. Time passed, and

the hoarse and insulting voice once more pierced the calm of night. It

called him coward again; it invited the Majorcan to come out. "Come out,

you son of a----"

At this insult Febrer trembled, and thrust his revolver back into his

belt. His mother, his poor mother, pale and sick, and as sweet as a

saint, whose memory was evoked by the greatest of infamies in the mouth

of that criminal!

He started instinctively toward the door, colliding after a few steps

with the barricade of tables and chairs. No; not the door. A rectangle

of blue and hazy light was framed by the dark wall. Jaime had opened the

window. The starry light faintly illuminated the contraction of his

countenance, a cold grin, desperate, cruel, which gave him resemblance

to the knight commander Don Priamo and other navigators of war and

destruction whose dust-covered portraits were hanging in the great house

in Majorca.

He seated himself on the window, threw his legs over the sill, and

cautiously began to descend, feeling with his toes for the hollows in

the wall.

As his feet touched earth he drew his revolver from his belt, and

bending low, one hand on the ground, he crept around the base of the

tower. His feet became entangled in the roots of the tamarisks which the

wind had bared, and which sunk in the earth like a tangled skein of

black serpents. Each time that he was stopped by a mesh of roots, each

time that a stone rolled down or made a sound, he stopped, holding his

breath. He was trembling, not with fear, but with the eagerness of the

hunter who fears he may arrive too late. He longed to fall upon the

enemy, to lay hands upon him while he stood near the door muttering his

deadly insults!

Dragging himself along the ground, he came to where he could see the

lower end of the stairway, then the upper steps, and finally the door,

which stood out white in the light of the stars. Nobody! The enemy had

fled.

In his surprise he stood erect, intently watching the black and

undulating spot of bushes which extended around the foot of the

stairway. Suddenly a red serpent, a streak of flame, followed by a tiny

cloud and a thunder clap, leapt from out the tamarisks. Jaime thought he

had been struck in the breast by a stone, a hot pebble, perhaps flung

into the air by the concussion from the detonation.

"It's nothing!" he thought.

But at the same instant he found himself lying on the ground flat on his

back.

He turned instinctively, lying with his breast on the earth, resting on

one hand, extending the other which grasped the revolver. He felt

strong; he repeated to himself that it was nothing; but suddenly his

body almost refused to obey his will. He seemed to be glued to the

ground. He saw the bushes move, as if stirred by some dark animal,

cautious and malignant. There was the enemy! It thrust out first its

head, then its trunk, and finally its legs from the crackling bushes.

With the rapid vision which accompanies the drowning man, a vision in

which are concentrated fleeting recollections of all his former life,

Febrer thought of his youth, when he used to fire off his pistol while

lying on the ground in the garden at Palma as if rehearsing for a deadly

encounter. The preparation of long ago was going to stand him in good

stead now.

He clearly saw the black bulk of the enemy, motionless and in the line

of sight of his revolver. His vision was becoming more hazy, more

indistinct, as if the night were steadily growing darker. The enemy was

approaching cautiously, also with a weapon in his hand, no doubt with

the intention of finishing his deadly work. Then Febrer pulled on the

trigger, once, twice, and again, believing that the weapon did not work,

failing to hear the detonations, telling himself in his desperation that

his enemy was going to fall upon him while he was without means of

defense. He no longer saw the enemy. A white haze spread before his

eyes; his ears buzzed--but when he thought he felt his adversary near,

the mist cleared away, he saw the calm blue light of night again, and,

a few steps away, also stretched on the ground, lay a body writhing,

arching itself, clawing the earth, emitting a harsh groan, a hiccough of

death.

Jaime could not understand this marvel. Really was it he himself who had

fired a shot?

He tried to get up, but as he touched the ground his hands dabbled in a

thick, warm clay. He touched his breast and he also found it wet by

something warm and thick, dripping ceaselessly in slender streams. He

tried to contract his legs in order to kneel, but his legs would not

obey him. Only then was he convinced that he was wounded.

His eyes lost clearness of vision. He saw the tower double, then triple,

then a curtain of cubes of stone extending along the coast, sinking into

the sea. An acrid taste spread from his palate to his lips. It seemed to

him that he was drinking something warm and strong, but that he was

drinking it wrong way about, by a caprice of the mechanism of his life,

the strange liquor reaching his palate from the depths of his vitals.

The black bulk which lay writhing and moaning a few steps away, seemed

to grow larger every time he touched the ground in his contortions. Now

he was an apoplectic animal, a monster of the night, which, as it arched

its body, reached the stars.

The barking of dogs, and the voices of human beings dissolved this

phantom of solitude. Out of the darkness appeared lights.

"Don Jaime! Don Jaime!"

Whose voice was this? Where had he heard it before?

He saw dark figures stirring about, bending over him, carrying red stars

in their hands. He saw a man holding back another smaller one who

carried in his hand a white lightning flash, perhaps a knife, with

which he tried to finish the kicking monster.

He saw no more. He felt a pair of soft arms lift his head. A voice, the

same one he had heard a moment ago, tremulous and tearful, sounded in

his ears, thrilling him to the depths of his soul.

"Don Jaime! Alas, Don Jaime!"

He felt on his mouth a sweet touch, something which caressed him with a

silky sensation; gradually the contact pressed more close, until it

became a frantic kiss, desperate, mad with grief.

Before sight forsook him he smiled weakly as he recognized near his own

a pair of eyes tearful with love and pain; the eyes of Margalida.

CHAPTER IV

LIFE AND LOVE COMMAND

When Febrer found himself in a room in Can Mallorqui, lying on a white

bed--perhaps Margalida's bed--he began to recall the events of a short

time before.

He had walked to the farmhouse supported by Pep and the Little Chaplain,

feeling on his back sympathetic, trembling hands. His recollections were

vague, dim, surrounded by a nimbus of white haze; something resembling

the confused memory of acts and words after a day of intoxication.

He recalled that his head had fallen on Pep's shoulder with mortal

weariness; that his strength was deserting him, as if his life were

escaping with the warm and sticky stream trickling down his breast and

his back. He recollected that behind him sounded deafening groans,

broken words imploring the aid of all the celestial powers; and he, in

his weakness, his temples palpitating from the buzzing that accompanied

the dizziness, made strenuous efforts to steady himself, advancing step

by step, with the fear of falling in the roadway and remaining there

forever. How interminable seemed the journey down to Can Mallorqui! It

appeared to have lasted hours, days; in his dulled memory the walk

seemed as long as the whole of his former life.

When at last friendly hands helped him climb into bed and began

removing his clothing by the light of a candle, Febrer experienced a

sensation of well-being and rest. He wished never to arise from this

soft couch; he desired to remain here for all time!

Blood! The brilliant red of blood everywhere--on his jacket and shirt

which were tossed at the foot of the bed as if they were rags, on the

stiff white sheets, in the basin of water which reddened as Pep wet a

cloth to bathe Febrer's chest. Each garment removed from his body was

dripping. His underclothing separated from his flesh with a wrench which

made him shiver. The light of the candle, with its trembling flame, drew

from the shadows a prevailing tone of red.

The women began to wail. Margalida's mother, forgetting all prudence,

clasped her hands and raised her eyes with an expression of terror.

Reina Santisima!

Febrer wondered at these exclamations. He was all right; why were the

women so alarmed? Margalida, silent, her eyes enlarged by terror, moved

about the room, turning over clothing, opening chests with the

precipitation of fear, but never becoming confused at the furious cries

of her father.

Good old Pep, frowning, a greenish pallor on his dark countenance,

attended the wounded man, while at the same time he gave orders.

"Lint! Bring more lint! Silence, women! Why so many cries and

lamentations?"

He ordered his wife to go in search of a little pot of marvelous unguent

treasured up ever since the times of his glorious father, the formidable

man-slayer accustomed to wounds.

And when the mother, astounded at these abrupt orders, started to join

Margalida in search of the remedy, her husband called her back to the

bedside. She must hold the senor. Pep had turned him on his side in

order to examine and wash his breast and back, declaring that he had

seen worse sights than this in his younger days, and that he understood

something about wounds. When the blood was wiped off with a wet cloth

two orifices were left exposed, one in the chest and the other in the

back. Good! The ball had passed through his body; it would not have to

be extracted, and this was an advantage.

With his rustic hands, to which he endeavored to impart a feminine

tenderness, he tried to form tampons of lint to introduce into the

wounds, which continued gently emitting the red liquid. Margalida,

wrinkling her brows and turning away to avoid meeting Febrer's eyes, at

last brushed Pep aside.

"Let me do it, father. Perhaps I can do it better."

Jaime thought he felt on his bare flesh, sensitive, vibrating from the

cruel wound, a sensation of coolness, of sweet calm, as the tampons were

pressed into it by the girl's fingers.

Jaime remained motionless, feeling against his back and on his breast

the cloths piled up by the two women in their horror at the blood.

The optimism which had animated him when he sank and fell near the

tower, reappeared. Surely it was nothing, an insignificant wound; he

felt better already. He was troubled by the sad expressions and the

silence of those around him, and he smiled to encourage them. He tried

to speak, but his first attempt at words produced extreme fatigue.

The peasant restrained him with a gesture. Silence, Don Jaime; he must

keep perfectly still. The doctor would soon be here. Pepet had mounted

the best horse on the place and had ridden to San Jose to call him.

On seeing Don Jaime's eyes opened wide in astonishment, persisting in

his encouraging smile, Pep continued speaking in order to divert

Febrer's mind. He told him that he had been sound asleep when suddenly

he was awakened by his wife calling him, and by the cries of the

children, who made a rush for the door. Outside the farmhouse, in the

direction of the tower, sounded shots. Another attack on the senor, the

same as two nights before! When Pepet heard the two last shots he seemed

to rejoice. Those were from Don Jaime; he recognized the sound of his

revolver.

Pep had lighted a lantern, his wife took the candle, and they all rushed

up the hill to the tower, without giving a thought to danger. The first

one they found was the Ironworker, his head streaming blood, writhing

and howling like a demon.

His sinful life was ended, God have mercy on his soul! Pep had been

compelled to lay hands on his son, who had turned, furious and malignant

as a monkey, when he saw who it was, and drew a great knife from his

belt, with the intention of finishing him. Where had Pepet found that

weapon? Boys are the very devil! A fine plaything for a seminarist!

The father glanced significantly at the knife presented to the Little

Chaplain by Febrer, which was lying on a chair.

They had discovered the senor lying face downward near the tower

stairway. Ah, Don Jaime, what a fright he and his family had! They

thought him dead. In circumstances like this one realizes his affection

for a person; and the good peasant glanced tenderly at Jaime, and was

accompanied in this mute caress by the two women, who pressed close to

the bed.

This glance of affection and of sorrowful anxiety was the last thing

Febrer saw. His eyes closed, and he gradually fell into a stupor,

without dreams, without delirium, in the gray softness of the void.

When he opened his eyes again the light which illuminated the room was

no longer red. He saw the candle hanging in the same place with its wick

black and dull. A cold, gloomy light penetrated through the little

window of the sleeping room; the light of dawn. Jaime experienced a

sensation of chill. The covers were being withdrawn from his body; agile

hands were touching the bandages of his wounds. The flesh, numb a few

hours before, now flinched at the lightest touch with the excruciating

vibration of the pain, arousing an irresistible desire to groan.

Following with his clouded eyes the hands which were torturing him,

Febrer saw a pair of black sleeves, then a cravat, a shirt collar

different from those used by the peasants, and above all this a face

with a gray mustache, a face he had often seen on the roads, but which

failed to arouse in his memory a name; however, gradually he came to

recognize it. It must be the doctor from San Jose whom he had seen

frequently on horseback or driving along in a buggy; an old

practitioner, wearing sandals like a peasant, and differing from them

only in his cravat and his stiff collar, signs of superiority which he

carefully maintained.

How the man tormented him as he touched his flesh, which seemed to have

grown tense, becoming more sensitive, with a sickly and timid

sensitiveness, as if it would contract at the mere contact with air!

When this face was lost to his view and he no longer felt the torture of

the hands he sank again into restful sleep. He closed his eyes, but his

hearing seemed to be sharpened. He heard low voices in the next room,

but he could only catch a few phrases. An unknown voice was

congratulating himself that the ball had not remained in the body;

undoubtedly in its trajectory it had passed through the lung. Here arose

a chorus of exclamations of astonishment, of repressed sighs, and then

of protest from the unfamiliar voice. Yes, the lung; but there was no

cause for alarm.

"The lung heals readily. It is the most tractable organ of the whole

body. The only thing to be feared is traumatic pneumonia."

Hearing this, Febrer persisted in his optimism. "It is nothing: it is

nothing." And again he fell gently into the hazy sea of sleep, a sea

immense, smooth, heavy, in which visions and sensations sank without

causing a ripple or leaving a trace.

From that instant Febrer lost count of time and reality. He still lived;

he was sure of it, but his life was abnormal, strange, a long life of

shadow and inconsequence with short intervals of light. He opened his

eyes and it was night; the little window was black and the candle flame

colored everything with flickering red spots which joined the shadows in

a merry jig. He opened them again, imagining that only a few moments had

passed, and it was day once more; a ray of sunshine entered the room,

tracing a circle of gold at the foot of the bed. In this way day and

night succeeded each other with strange rapidity, as if the course of

time had become forever reversed; or it seemed to remain stationary,

with a maddening monotony. When the sick man opened his eyes it was

night, eternally night, as if the globe were overwhelmed by unending

darkness. Again it seemed that the sun were forever shining, as in the

Arctic regions.

During one of his waking spells his eyes met those of the Little

Chaplain. Thinking him suddenly better, the boy spoke in a low voice so

as not to incur the ire of his father, who had commanded silence.

The Ironworker had already been buried. The bully lay rotting in the

earth. What a true shot Don Jaime was! What a hand he had! He had broken

the braggart's head.

The boy recalled what had taken place afterward with the pride of one

who has enjoyed the honor of witnessing an historic event. The judge had

come from the city with his tasselled staff, the chief of the Civil

Guard and two gentlemen carrying papers and bottles of ink; all with an

escort of men wearing three-cornered hats and carrying guns. These

omnipotent personages, after a rest at Can Mallorqui, had climbed up to

the tower, examining everything, prying all around, running over the

ground as if to measure it, compelling him, the Little Chaplain, to lie

down in the very spot where Don Jaime had been found, adopting a similar

posture. After the visit of the magistrate some pious neighbors had

borne the body of the Ironworker to the cemetery of San Jose, and the

powerful representatives of the law had come down to the farmhouse to

quiz the wounded man. It was impossible to make him speak. He was sound

asleep, and when they aroused him he looked at them with a vague stare,

and immediately closed his eyes again. Really did not the senor

remember? They would question him again some other time when he was

well. There was nothing to worry about; the magistrates and all

honorable people were in his favor. As the Ironworker had no near

relatives to avenge his death and as he had made himself obnoxious, the

people had no reason for keeping silent, and they all spoke the truth.

The Ironworker had gone two nights in search of the senor in his tower,

and the senor had defended himself. It was certain that nothing would

be done to him. Thus declared the Little Chaplain, who, on account of

his warlike tendencies, possessed some of the characteristics of a juris

consult. "Self defense, Don Jaime----" It was the sole topic of

conversation on the island. It was discussed in the cafes and casinos

throughout the city. They had even written to Palma, giving news of the

affair so that it would be published in the daily papers. By this time

his friends in Majorca would have heard all about it.

The trial would be short. The only one who had been taken to Iviza and

thrust into jail was the Minstrel, on account of his threats and lies.

He tried to make the people believe that it was he who had gone in

search of the detested Majorcan; he extolled the Ironworker as an

innocent victim; but he was to be set at liberty at any time by the

magistrate who was tired of his deceptions and his lying tales. The boy

spoke of him with scorn. That chicken could not pride himself on having

wounded a man. A mere farce!

Sometimes when the injured man opened his eyes he saw the motionless and

muffled figure of Pep's wife who sat staring at him with expressionless

eyes, moving her lips as if in prayer, and giving vent to profound

sighs. No sooner did she encounter the glassy gaze of Febrer than she

ran to a small table covered with bottles and glasses. Her affection was

manifested by an incessant desire to make him drink all the liquids

ordered by the doctor.

When, in moments of turbid wakefulness, Jaime found Margalida's face

bending over him, he experienced a joy which helped to dispel his

drowsiness. The girl's eyes wore an adoring and timorous expression. She

seemed to be imploring forgiveness with her tearful orbs outlined with

blue against the nunlike delicacy of her skin. "For me! All on account

of me!" she seemed to say tacitly, with a gesture of remorse.

She approached him timidly, vacillating, but without a flush of color,

as if the strangeness of the circumstances had overcome her former

shrinking. She arranged the disordered covers of his couch, she gave him

to drink, and she raised his head to smooth his pillows. When Febrer

tried to speak she raised her index finger to impose silence.

Once the wounded man grasped her hand as she passed and pressed it

against his lips, caressing it with a prolonged kiss. Margalida dared

not draw it away. She turned her head as if she wished to hide her

tear-filled eyes. She groaned with anguish, and the sick man thought he

heard expressions of remorse such as he had divined in her manner. "On

account of me! It happened on account of me!" Jaime experienced a

sensation of joy at her tears. Oh, sweet Almond Blossom!

Now he no longer saw the fine, pale face; he could distinguish only the

flash of her eyes, surrounded by white mist, as one sees the splendor of

the sun on a stormy morning. His temples throbbed cruelly, his sight

grew turbid. The sweet stupor, soft and empty as nothingness, was

succeeded by a sleep peopled with incoherent visions, of fiery images

vibrating against a background of intense blackness, by torture which

wrung from his breast groans of fear and cries of anguish. He was

delirious. Often he would awake from one of his frightful nightmares for

an instant, barely long enough to find himself sitting up in bed, his

arms pinned down by other arms, which endeavored to hold him. Then he

would sink back into that world of shadows, peopled with horrors. In

this fleeting consciousness, like a hasty vision of light from a

breathing-hole in the darkness of a tunnel, he recognized near his bed

the sorrowful faces of the family of Can Mallorqui. Again his eyes would

encounter those of the doctor, and once he even thought he saw the gray

whiskers and the oil-colored eyes of his friend, Pablo Valls. "Illusion!

Madness!" he thought, as he sank once more into lethargy.

Sometimes while his eyes remained sunk in this world of gloom, furrowed

by the red comets of nightmare, his ear vibrated weakly with words which

seemed to come from far, very far away, but which were uttered near his

bedside. "Traumatic pneumonia--delirium." These words were repeated by

different voices, but he doubted that they referred to himself. He felt

well. This was nothing; a strong desire to continue lying down; a

renunciation of life; the voluptuosity of keeping still, of lying there

until the approach of death, which did not arouse in him the slightest

fear.

His brain, disordered by fever, seemed to whirl and whirl in mad

rotation, and these cycles evoked in his confused mind an image which

had often filled it. He saw a wheel, an enormous wheel, immense as a

terrestrial sphere, its upper part lost in cloud, its lower arc merging

in the sidereal dust which glittered in the darkness of the heavens. The

tire of this wheel was composed of human flesh; millions and millions of

human beings soldered together, welded, gesticulating, their extremities

free, moving them to convince themselves of their activity and of their

liberty, while the bodies were joined one to another. The spokes of the

wheel attracted Febrer's attention by their diverse forms. Some were

swords, their blood-stained blades wound with garlands of laurel, the

symbol of heroism; others seemed golden scepters tipped by crowns of

kings or emperors; rods of justice; ingots of gold formed by coins laid

one upon another; shepherd's crooks set with precious stones, symbols of

divine guidance ever since men grouped themselves into flocks to timidly

bawl with their gaze fixed on high. The hub of this wheel was a skull,

white, clean, shiny, as if made of polished ivory; a skull as big as a

planet, which seemed to remain stationary while everything turned around

it; a skull luminous, moon-like, which seemed to leer malignantly from

its dark eye-sockets, silently mocking at all this movement.

The wheel turned and turned. The millions of human beings fastened to it

in its continual revolution shouted and waved their hands, aroused to

enthusiasm and enkindled with fervor by the velocity. Jaime saw that no

sooner did they rise to the highest point than they began to descend

head downward; but, in their illusion they imagined themselves traveling

forward, admiring at each revolution new spaces, new things. They

fancied the very point through which they had passed but a moment before

an unfamiliar and astounding region. Ignorant of the immovability of the

center around which they were turning, they believed with the best of

faith that the movement was an advance. "How we are running! Where are

we going to stop?" they cried. And Febrer pitied their simplicity,

seeing their elation at the rapidity of their imagined progress when

they were actually remaining in the same place; rejoicing in the

velocity of an ascension on which they started for the millionth time

and which inevitably must be followed by the downward plunge.

Suddenly Jaime felt himself pressed forward by an irresistible force.

The great skull smiled at him mockingly. "You, also! Why resist your

destiny?" And he found himself fastened to the wheel, jumbled with that

credulous and childish humanity, but lacking the consolation of their

fond delusion; and his traveling companions insulted him, spat upon him,

beat him in their indignation when they learned of his absurd denial of

their movement, believing him insane for holding in doubt something

which was visible to all.

At last the wheel exploded, filling the black space with flames, with

thousands of millions of cries and tremulous vibrations from the human

beings hurled through the mystery of eternity; and he fell and fell, for

years, for centuries, until he dropped upon the soft bed. Then he opened

his eyes. Margalida stood near, gazing at him by the candle light with

an expression of terror. It must be the early morning. The poor girl

gave a gasp of fear as she grasped his arms with her trembling little

hands.

"Don Jaime! Ay, Don Jaime!"

He had cried out like an insane man; he was leaning over the bed with an

evident desire to fall to the floor, he had been talking about a wheel

and a skull. "What is the matter, Don Jaime?"

The invalid felt the loving touch of gentle hands, which smoothed his

disordered clothing, drew up the covers and tucked them around his

shoulders, maternally, with the same caressing care as if he were a

child.

Before sinking back into a state of mental confusion, before again

passing through the fiery gateway of delirium, he saw close to his face

the moist eyes of Margalida, which were ever growing more sad and

tearful within their circles of blue. He felt the warm gust of her

breath on his lips, and then he felt their thrill at a silky, moist

contact, a light, timid caress, similar to the brushing of a wing.

"Sleep, Don Jaime." The senor must sleep. And despite the respect with

which she addressed him, her words possessed a murmur of affectionate

intimacy, as if Don Jaime were to her a different man since the

misfortune which had drawn them together.

The delirium of fever dragged the sick man through strange worlds, where

not the slightest vestige of reality remained. He was in his solitary

tower again. The gloomy fortress was no longer constructed of stone; it

was formed of skulls joined like blocks of stone by a mortar of

bonedust. Of bones also were the hill and the cliffs along the coast;

white skeletons the lines of foam which crowned the breakers from the

sea. Everything that his view embraced, trees and mountains, ships and

distant islands, became an ossified, glacial landscape. Craniums with

wings similar to those of cherubims in religious pictures fluttered

through the heavens uttering through their fleshless jaws hoarse hymns

to the great divinity who filled the whole space with the folds of his

shroud, and whose bony head was lost in the clouds. He felt that

invisible beings were ripping off his flesh in bleeding tatters, which,

having adhered to him throughout a whole lifetime, drew from him shrieks

of pain as they were torn away. Then he beheld himself a white skeleton,

bleached and polished, and a far away voice seemed to murmur a horrible

consecration in his ear-cavities. The moment of true greatness had

arrived; he had ceased being a man to become converted into a corpse.

The slave had passed through the great initiation, and had changed to a

demigod. The dead command! It was only necessary to see with what

superstitious respect, with what servile fear, the city dwellers saluted

those who were passing into the great beyond. The powerful bare their

heads in the presence of the dead beggar.

With the potent vision of his black and eyeless sockets, for which there

was neither distance nor obstacle, he gazed upon the entire world.

Dead, dead on every side! They filled everything. He beheld tribunals of

men dressed in black, their eyes haughty and their gesture imposing,

listening to the woes of their fellow creatures, while behind them stood

an equal number of enormous skeletons, endowed with the grandeur of

centuries, wrapped in togas, who were those who moved the hands of the

judges as they wrote, and who dictated their sentences over their heads.

The dead judge! He saw great halls of vertical light with concentric

rows of seats, and on them hundreds of men speaking, vociferating and

gesticulating, in the noisy task of making laws. Behind them crouched

the real legislators, the dead, the deputies in their winding sheets,

whose presence was unguessed by these men of grandiloquent vanity, who

imagined that they ever spoke by their own inspiration. The dead

legislate! In a moment of doubt it was sufficient for someone to recall

what had been the opinion of the dead in former times in order to

reestablish calm, everyone accepting their opinion. The dead, eternal

and immutable, were the only reality! Men of flesh and blood were a mere

accident, an insignificant bubble bursting with ostentatious pride!

He saw white skeletons guarding like gloomy angels the gates of cities

which they had built, watching the flock hemmed within, repelling as

accursed the irresponsible madmen who refused to recognize their

authority. He saw at the foot of great monuments, museum paintings, and

shelves of books in the libraries, the mute grin of the craniums which

seemed to say to men: "Admire us! This is our work, and all which you do

will be after our example!" The entire world belonged to the dead. They

reigned. The living, as they opened their mouths to receive food,

masticated particles of those who had preceded them along the pathway

of life; when they wished to feast their eyes and ears on beauty, art

offered them works and precedents established by the dead. Even love

suffered this servitude. Woman in modesty or in bursts of passion, which

she deems spontaneous, unconsciously imitated her grandmothers, who had

been temptresses with hypocritical modesty or frankly voluptuous,

according to the epochs in which they lived.

In his delirium the sick man began to feel oppressed by the density and

number of these beings, white and bony, with eyeless sockets and

malevolent grins, skeletons of a vanished life, obstinately determined

to continue to subsist, dominating everything. They were so many, so

many! It was impossible to even stir. Febrer stumbled against their bare

and prominent ribs, against the sharp angles of their hips; his ears

vibrated with the dry creaking of their knee-pans. They overpowered him,

they asphyxiated him; there were millions upon millions; all the

ancestors of the human race! Finding no space whereon to set their feet,

they stood in rows one upon another. They were a kind of in-coming tide

of bones which rose and swelled until it reached the summit of the

highest mountains and touched the clouds. Jaime was choking in this

white inundation, hard and crackling. They trampled him underfoot; they

weighed upon his chest with the heaviness of dead things. He was going

to die! In his despair he clutched a hand which seemed to come from far

away, appearing out of the shadows; the hand of a living being, a hand

of flesh! He tugged at it and gradually in the fog the pale spot began

to assume the form of a countenance. After his existence in a world of

empty craniums and bleached bones this human face caused him the same

sense of grateful surprise as that experienced by the explorer on

meeting with one of his race after a long sojourn among savage tribes.

He tugged harder at the hand; the vagueness of the countenance became

condensed, and he recognized Pablo Valls bending over him, moving his

lips as if murmuring affectionate phrases which he could not hear.

Again? The captain was always appearing in his delirium!

After this rapid vision the sick man sank back into unconsciousness. Now

his stupor was more tranquil. His thirst, that horrible thirst, which

had impelled him to reach his hands outside the bed and to draw his lips

away from the emptied glass with a gesture of unsatisfied eagerness, now

began to diminish. In his delirium he had seen clear streams, great

silent rivers, which he could never reach, his limbs overcome by a

painful paralysis. Now he beheld a luminous and foaming cataract rolling

down against the background of his dream, and at last he could walk, he

could approach it, seeing it more clearly at each step, feeling the cool

caress of the moisture on his face.

From out the noise of this waterfall stifled voices reached his ears.

Someone was talking of traumatic pneumonia again. "It is conquered." And

a voice added joyfully: "That is good! We have a man again!" The invalid

recognized this voice. Pablo Valls was ever reappearing in his delirium!

He continued on his way, attracted by the coolness of the water. He

stood beneath the sonorous torrent and he thrilled with voluptuous

shivers as he received on his back the force of the falling stream. A

sensation of freshness overspread his body, causing him to sigh with

pleasure. His limbs seemed to relax beneath the icy touch. His chest

broadened, overcoming the oppression which had tortured him until a

moment ago, as if the whole earth weighed upon his body. He felt the

haze clearing away from his brain. He was still delirious, but his

delirium was not pierced by scenes of terror and cries of anguish. It

was, instead, a placid sleep, in which the body relaxed, and his

thoughts took wing through pleasant horizons of optimism. The foam of

the cascade was white, reflecting the colors of the rainbow on its

facets of liquid diamonds. The sky was a rose tint, with distant music

and mild perfumes. Something trembled mysteriously, invisible, and at

the same time smiling, in this fantastic atmosphere; a supernatural

force which seemed to beautify it with its contact. It was returning

health!

The incessant waters falling over the cliffs, aroused in his memory

former dreams. Once more the wheel, the immense wheel, the image of

humanity, which turned and turned in its identical place, beginning one

ascent after another, ever passing the same places.

The sick man, revived by the sensation of coolness, thought that he

possessed a new sense of understanding.

Again he saw the wheel revolving through the infinite, but was it really

stationary?

Doubt, the beginning of new truths, caused him to look with closer

attention. Was it not a deception of his own eyes? Was it he who was

mistaken, and were not those millions of beings who uttered shouts of

joy in their whirling prison right in thinking that they realized a

fresh advance with each whirl?

It was cruel for life to go on developing for hundreds of centuries in

this deceptive agitation, concealing an actual inactivity. For what then

the existence of created things? Had humanity no other purpose than to

deceive itself, turning by its own effort the cylinder which imprisoned

it, as birds by their springing cause the cage which is their prison to

vibrate?

Now he no longer saw the wheel. Before his vision passed an enormous

globe of bluish color, on which were marked the seas and continents with

outlines like those he had seen on maps. It was the Earth! He, an

imperceptible molecule in the immensity of space, an abject spectator of

the stupendous representation of Nature, beheld the blue globe with its

girdle of clouds.

It also was revolving like the fatal wheel. It turned and turned upon

itself with exasperating monotony, but this movement which was the

nearest, the most visible, that which all could appreciate, was

insignificant. Another movement was the one of real importance. Above

that of the monotonous rotation, ever around the same axis, was that of

translation, which dragged the globe through the infinitude of space in

eternal travel, never re-passing through the same place.

Curses on the wheel! Life was not an eternal revolution through

identical situations! Only the shortsighted, seeing no farther beyond,

as they contemplated this movement, could imagine that it was the only

one. The earth itself was the image of life. It ever rotated through

determined spaces of time; days and seasons were repeated, as, in the

history of mankind, greatness and decline follow each other; but there

was something more than all this; the movement of translation, which

drew toward the infinite, ever forward, ever forward!

The theory of "the eternal re-beginning of things" was false. Men and

events were repeated as are days and seasons on earth; but although

everything seemed alike it was not really so. The outer form of objects

might be similar, but the soul was different!

No; the wheel had vanished! Perish inactivity! The dead could not

command! The world, in its forward movement, ran so fast that they could

not sustain themselves upon its surface. They clutched at the crust

with their bony claws, struggling for years, perhaps for centuries, to

keep firm hold, but the velocity of the race finally cast them off,

leaving in their wake a trail of broken bones, of dust, of nothing!

The world, filled with the living, traveled straight forward, never

passing over the same place twice. Febrer had seen it appear on the

horizon like a tear of luminous blue, then grow larger and larger, until

it filled the whole of space, passing near him with the velocity of a

rotating projectile; and now it was becoming smaller again, fleeing

through the opposite extreme. Now it was a drop, a point,

nothing--becoming lost in obscurity! Who knew whither it was bound, and

why?

Futilely his ideas of a moment before, being now overcome, returned with

the purpose of making a final protest, shouting that this movement of

translation was equally false, and that the Earth turned like a wheel

around the sun--no; neither was the sun stationary, but with all its

familiar company of planets, it fell and fell, if it is possible in the

infinite to fall without rising; it traveled on and on--who knows toward

what destination, or for what purpose?

Definitely, abominating the wheel, he rent it to bits in his

imagination, experiencing the joy of the convict who passes out through

the door of his prison and breathes the air of freedom. He thought that

scales fell from his eyes as from those of the Hebrew Apostle at

Damascus. He beheld a new light. Man is free, and he can liberate

himself from the dead by an effort, cutting the knot of slavery that has

soldered him to these invisible despots.

He ceased dreaming; he sank into oblivion with the silent and intimate

joy of the laborer resting after a profitable day's work.

When, after a long time, he re-opened his eyes, he found those of Pablo

Valls fastened upon his. Valls was holding one of his hands, gazing at

him affectionately with his amber pupils.

He could no longer doubt; it was reality! He detected the odor of

English tobacco, which always seemed to float around his mouth and

beard. Was it not then an illusion? Had he really seen him in the course

of his delirium? Was it his actual voice which he had heard in the midst

of his nightmares?

The captain burst into a laugh, displaying his long teeth, yellowed by

the pipe.

"Ah, my fine fellow!" he exclaimed. "You're better, aren't you? The

fever has gone; there is no longer any danger. The wounds are healed.

You must feel the itching of a thousand demons in them; something as if

you had a thousand wasps under the bandages. That is the formation of

tissue, the new flesh which hurts as it grows."

Jaime realized the truth of these words. In the region of his wounds he

felt an itching, a tension which contracted his flesh.

Valls read a supplication of curiosity in the eyes of his friend.

"Do not talk! Do not tire yourself! How long have I been here? About two

weeks. I read about your accident in the Palma newspapers, and I came

immediately. Your friend the Chueta will always be the same. What

anxiety you have given us! Pneumonia, my boy, and in a dangerous form!

You opened your eyes and you did not recognize me; you raved like a

madman. But it's all over now! We have given you the best of care. Look!

See who's here!"

He stepped away from the bed so that Febrer might see Margalida, hidden

behind the captain, shrinking and timid, now that the senor could look

at her with eyes free from fever. Ah, Almond Blossom! Jaime's glance,

tender and sweet, brought a flush to her cheeks. She feared that the

sick man might remember what she had done in the most critical moments,

when she was almost sure that he was going to die.

"Now you must keep still," continued Valls. "I will stay here until we

can go back to Palma together. You know me. I understand everything;

I'll arrange it all. Eh? Do I make myself clear?"

The Chueta winked one eye and smiled mischievously, sure of his

cleverness in guessing the desires of his friends.

Famous captain! Ever since his arrival at Can Mallorqui the entire

family seemed dependent upon his orders, admiring him as a personage of

immense power, tempered by eternal joviality.

Margalida blushed at his words and winks, but she was fond of him for

being so devoted to his friend. She remembered his eyes brimming with

tears one night when they thought Don Jaime was going to die. Valls had

wept, while at the same time he muttered curses. The Little Chaplain

adored that great gentleman from Majorca ever since he saw him burst out

laughing on learning that his parents intended him to be a priest. Pep

and his wife followed him like obedient and submissive dogs.

Several afternoons Pablo and the sick man discussed past events.

Valls was a man quick in his decisions.

"You know that I never tire of doing for my friends. When I landed in

Iviza I went to see the judge. Everything can be satisfactorily

arranged. You are in the right, and everybody knows it--self defense! A

few annoyances when you get well, but they won't amount to much. The

matter of your health is decided also. What else is there? Ah, yes!

There is something else, but I have that about settled also."

He laughed knowingly as he said this, pressing the hands of Febrer, who,

on his part, wished to ask no more; fearful of suffering a

disappointment.

Once, when Margalida entered the room, Valls grasped her by the arm and

drew her near the couch.

"Look at her!" he said, with burlesque gravity, turning toward the sick

man. "Is this the girl you love? They haven't succeeded in changing her,

have they? Then give her your hand, stupid! What are you doing there,

staring at her with those frightened eyes?"

Febrer clasped Margalida's right hand with both of his. Was it really

true? His eyes sought those of the girl, which remained lowered, while

emotion whitened her cheeks and made her nostrils palpitate.

"Now kiss each other," said Valls, gently shoving the girl toward

Febrer.

But Margalida, as if she felt threatened by a danger, freed her hands,

fleeing from the room.

"Good!" said the captain. "You'll kiss each other before very long--when

I'm not around."

Valls declared himself in favor of this union. Did Febrer love her? Then

go ahead. This was more logical than the marriage with his niece for her

father's millions. Margalida was a fine woman. He understood these

things; when Jaime should take her away from the island, and accustom

her to different ways and to different dress, with the adaptability of

woman, it would soon be impossible to recognize the former peasant girl.

"I have arranged your future, young inquisitor. You know that your

friend the Jew always accomplishes what he undertakes. You have enough

left in Majorca so that you can live modestly. Don't shake your head; I

know that you want to work, and now more than ever since you are in love

and mean to raise a family. You will work. We'll set up a business

together; we can decide on that later. I always have my head crammed

with projects. That's characteristic of my race. If you prefer to leave

Majorca, I'll look for a situation for you abroad. You must think it

over."

In all matters relating to the family of Can Mallorqui the captain spoke

with the authority of a master. Pep and his wife dared not disobey him.

How could they argue with a senor who knew everything? The peasant

farmer offered little resistance. Since Don Pablo desired the marriage

of Margalida to the senor and gave his word that it would not bring

misfortune to the girl, they might marry. It was a great sorrow for the

two old people to see her leave the island, but they preferred this to

having Febrer with them as a son-in-law, for he inspired them with a

respect which they could not outlive.

The Little Chaplain was almost ready to kneel before Vall's. "And yet

they say in Palma that Chuetas are bad!" he murmured. It was clear that

those who said so were Majorcans--a people unjust and proud! The captain

was a saint. Thanks to him, he would not have to go to the Seminary. He

would be a peasant-farmer. Can Mallorqui would be left to him. He had

even received the knife from his father, at the intercession of Don

Pablo, and he was counting on the gift of a modern pistol promised by

the captain, one of those marvelous weapons which he had admired in

Palma in the show windows along the Borne. As soon as Margalida's

marriage had taken place he would go throughout the district in search

of a bride, wearing in his girdle two noble companions. The race of

brave men must not die out on the island. In his veins coursed the

heroic blood of his grandfather!

One sunny morning Febrer, leaning on Valls and Margalida, made his way

with the step of a convalescent as far as the porch of the farmhouse.

Seated in a great armchair he gazed fondly upon the tranquil landscape

outspread before him. Upon the summit of the headland rose the Pirate's

Tower. How much he had dreamed and suffered there! Now he loved it as he

remembered that within it, alone and forgotten of the world, this

passion, destined to fill the rest of a once aimless life, had

originated.

Enfeebled by the long weeks in bed and by the loss of blood, he breathed

in the warm atmosphere of the luminous morning pierced by the breezes

which blew in from the sea.

Margalida, after contemplating Jaime with loving eyes, which still held

something of timidity, went into the house to prepare the morning meal.

The two men remained long in silence. Valls had taken out his pipe,

filling it with English tobacco, and expelling fragrant mouthfuls.

Febrer, with his gaze fixed on the landscape, his dazzled eyes embracing

the sky, the hills, the fields, and the sea, spoke in a low voice, as if

talking to himself.

Life was beautiful. He affirmed it with the conviction of one arisen

from the grave who returns unexpectedly to the world. Man could move

freely, the same as the bird and the insect, on the bosom of Nature.

There was a place for all. Why confine oneself by the bonds which others

had invented, tyrannizing over the future of the men who were to come

after them? The dead, ever the accursed dead, trying to meddle in

everything, complicating our existence!

Vall's smiled, looking at him with mischievous eyes. Several times he

had heard him in his delirium talking of the dead, waving his arms as if

fighting, trying to repel them with frightful struggles. As he listened

to Jaime's explanations, as he realized his respect for the past and his

submission to the influence of the dead that had stultified his life,

and had banished him to a remote island, Vall's remained silent and lost

in thought.

"Do you believe that the dead command, Pablo?"

The captain shrugged his shoulders. For him there was nothing absolute

in the world. Perhaps the dominion of the dead was tottering and was

already in its decadence. In other times they commanded like despots;

there was no doubt of that. It might be that now they commanded only in

some places, in others losing forever all hope of power. In Majorca they

still governed with a strong hand; he said it, he, the Chueta. In other

lands, perhaps not.

Febrer experienced deep annoyance as he recalled his mistakes and his

worries. Accursed dead! Humanity could never be happy and free until

they should cast off their power.

"Pablo, let us kill the dead!"

The captain looked at his friend for an instant with a certain anxiety,

but seeing the serenity of his eyes he was reassured and said, smiling:

"Kill them, for all I care!"

Then, recovering his gravity, and leaning back in his chair, while he

puffed a mouthful of smoke, the Chueta added: "You are right. Let us

kill the dead! Let us crush beneath our feet all useless obstacles, old

things that obstruct and complicate our pathway. We live according to

the word of Moses, to the word of Jesus, of Mohammed, or of other

shepherds of men, when the natural and logical thing would be to live

according to what we ourselves think and feel."

Jaime glanced behind him, as if his eyes would seek in the interior of

the house the sweet figure of Margalida. Then he thought over all his

old anxieties and all the new truths to which he had awakened, repeating

the same vigorous declaration: "Let us kill the dead!"

Pablo's voice aroused him from his reflections.

"Would you have married my niece in your present state of mind, without

fear or compunction?"

Febrer hesitated before replying. Yes, he would have married her,

regardless of the scruples which had caused him so much suffering; yet

something was lacking for the fulfillment of that union; something which

was above the will of man, superior to his power, something which could

not be bought and which ruled the world; something which the humble

Margalida unconsciously brought with her.

His troubles had ended. Now for a new life!

No; the dead do not command! It is life that commands, and above life,

love!