courageous face (especially when she let her hair down), and with
the volatile little soul of a sparrow dressed in fine Parisian
feathers, which had the trick of coming off disconcertingly at
unexpected moments.

But her imitations of a Parisian personage, very highly placed
indeed, as she represented him standing in the corner of a room
with his face to the wall, rubbing the back of his head and moaning
helplessly, "Rita, you are the death of me!" were enough to make
one (if young and free from cares) split one's sides laughing. She
had an uncle still living, a very effective Carlist, too, the
priest of a little mountain parish in Guipuzcoa. As the sea-going
member of the syndicate (whose plans depended greatly on Dona
Rita's information), I used to be charged with humbly affectionate
messages for the old man. These messages I was supposed to deliver
to the Arragonese muleteers (who were sure to await at certain
times the Tremolino in the neighbourhood of the Gulf of Rosas), for
faithful transportation inland, together with the various unlawful
goods landed secretly from under the Tremolino's hatches.

Well, now, I have really let out too much (as I feared I should in
the end) as to the usual contents of my sea-cradle. But let it
stand. And if anybody remarks cynically that I must have been a
promising infant in those days, let that stand, too. I am
concerned but for the good name of the Tremolino, and I affirm that
a ship is ever guiltless of the sins, transgressions, and follies
of her men.