‘You are not to suppose, Master Mariner,’ quoth he, ‘that you are in the mansion of a grandee of Spain. Because, for many generations, the family of the late Bartholomew Moranté were merchants, having great possessions both in Old and New Spain, at Alicant, upon the Mediterranean Sea, and on this side the ocean, at Havanna in Cuba, and here at Carthagena. Now, the wealth of Señor Bartholomew, my late master, who is with the saints, was so exceeding, that the king would have made him a noble, but to this dignity Señor Bartholomew did not in any way aspire. The first part of his life was very fortunate; not a galley, not a caravel sent he out, but it returned to him with the venture increased manyfold. But as he waxed old, the saints, doubtless having a mind to try his faith, it was so ordered that he experienced many crosses and losses, in such wise indeed that he left Alicant, not having any longer the means to keep up the brave state he had formerly supported, and came hither, and settled in this house at Carthagena. But his ill-fortune—praise to the saints, who, doubtless, took great interest in my late master, seeing that they were pleased thus to afflict him!—his ill-fortune, I say, following him, he was obliged to send away his agents at the Havanna, and at length, his greatest bark, richly freighted, being taken at sea, and all on board of her killed or sold into slavery, by a French devil incarnate, whom they call Montbars, and whom may heaven, in its mercy, cause to be eternally tormented—my good master took to his bed, and we weeping all around him, and blessing the saints, who, without doubt, had thus broken his heart, in order that they might take him to themselves, the worthy Bartholomew Moranté departed this life to enter into a better world where are neither spoilers nor stealers, nor doth there happen any manner of trouble or cross. His widow, whom still I serve, dwells here in this house, and places great confidence in me, looking up, although I say it, to my advice and counsels; for I am old in the world, and have seen much appertaining to domestic service, and am also much enlightened in visions by the holy saints, who are pleased to make my hours of sleep as profitable to my good patroness as my times of waking.’ From this rambling discourse of the old gentleman, I saw plainly of what kidney he was—to wit, a very honest-hearted simpleton, who loved his mistress dearly, while she, if her steward spoke sooth, was probably as simple-minded as himself. But, desiring to know somewhat of the young lady, the serving-man broke out into raptures concerning her innocence and her beauty. ‘Her name,’ quoth he, ‘thanks to the saints! is Joseffa—Joseffa Moranté—a rare brave name for a rare brave damsel. But she will change it sometime, mayhap. Nay, very soon—if all go right, and the saints will it.’ So saying, the old fellow began to smirk and nod, and look as wise and as sly as he could, and then fell to chuckling to himself.