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There must have been antecedents of a liberal character in our family, as Don Rafael's uncle, Don Juan Jose de Baroja, at first a priest at Pipaon and later at Vitoria, had been enrolled in the Basque Sociedad Economica. Don Rafael had two sons, Ignacio Ramon and Pio. They settled in San Sebastian as printers. Pio was my grandfather.
Except the occasional pattering of a squirrel, or a rustling in the chimisal bushes, there were no signs of life. The half-human print of a bear's foot sometimes appeared before them, at which Ignacio always crossed himself piously. The eye was sometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks, which on closer inspection proved to be a resinous oily liquid with an abominable sulphurous smell.
My father, two brothers, and three of my sisters died of fever just before I married Krause, and there are but two of us left now myself and another sister who is married to the Spanish doctor at San Ignacio de Agana. Oh, shall I ever see her face again?"
"Is that something new?" inquired the Padre, eagerly. The young man gave an exclamation. "The whole world is ringing with it!" he cried. "But Santa Ysabel del Mar is a long way from the whole world," murmured Padre Ignacio. "Indeed, it would not appear to be so," returned young Gaston. "I think the Comedie Francaise must be round the corner."
"I can trust Ignacio Chavez; I can trust Julius Struve. And, if you want it in words of one syllable, I cannot trust Caleb Patten!" "Hm," said Engle. "I think you're mistaken there, my boy." "Maybe," returned Norton. "But I can't afford right now to take any unnecessary chances. Which may not sound pretty, but which is the truth." "Of course I'll do what you ask," Engle said.
Whether he had succeeded or not I could not say until I had seen her; but meanwhile, deeming ripe the soil of her heart for the new attachment that should redound so much to his own credit now that the House of Borgia had risen to such splendid heights he was driving her into this alliance with Ignacio.
He wanted me to go to one of the Cuban villages in the interior where his family was; but I was anxious to get back to the United States. And so I came here to Havana " "To Havana!" "Yes, for I thought no one would know me." "And Ignacio saw you?" "Yes, and recognized me. But that was only the other day." "Where were you meanwhile?" "I had a letter to the British consul, and I stayed at his home.
Engle, again obviously anxious to dispel the more lugubrious and tragic atmospheres of the evening with any chance talk which might offer itself. "Let her wait until Ignacio can tell her," laughed Engle. "No one else can tell it so well, and certainly no one else has an equal pride or even an equal right in the matter."
She sought to learn this and that of a land new to her; who to explain more knowingly than Ignacio Chavez? After a little he would pluck some of the newly opened yellow rosebuds for her, making her a little speech about herself and budding flowers. He would even, perhaps, show her his bells, let her hear just the suspicion of a note from each. . . .
She told me then that she was Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior, and that Pope Alexander, in his nepotism and his desire to make rich and powerful alliances for his family, had settled upon her as the wife for his nephew, Ignacio Borgia. He had been emboldened to this step by the fact that her only protector was her brother, Filippo di Santafior, whom they had sought to coerce.
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