n away, and soon returned with her father, a tall gentleman, with
a gray beard. He looked intently for a minute at this sympathetic type
of a little Genoese sailor, with his golden hair and his aquiline nose,
and asked him in broken Italian, "Is your mother a Genoese?"

Marco replied that she was.

"Well then, the Genoese maid went with them; that I know for certain."

"And where have they gone?"

"To Cordova, a city."

The boy gave vent to a sigh; then he said with resignation, "Then I will
go to Cordova."

"Ah, poor child!" exclaimed the gentleman in Spanish; "poor boy! Cordova
is hundreds of miles from here."

Marco turned as white as a corpse, and clung with one hand to the
railings.

"Let us see, let us see," said the gentleman, moved to pity, and
opening the door; "come inside a moment; let us see if anything can be
done." He sat down, gave the boy a seat, and made him tell his story,
listened to it very attentively, meditated a little, then said
resolutely, "You have no money, have you?"

"I still have some, a little," answered Marco.

The gentleman reflected for five minutes more; then seated himself at a
desk, wrote a letter, sealed it, and handing it to the boy, he said to
him:--

"Listen to me, little Italian. Take this letter to Boca. That is a
little city which is half Genoese, and lies two hours' journey from
here. Any one will be able to show you the road. Go there and find the
gentleman to whom this letter is addressed, and whom every one knows.
Carry the letter to him. He will send you off to the town of Rosario
to-morrow, and will recommend you to some one there, who will think out
a way of enabling you to pursue your journey to Cordova, where you will
find the Mequinez family and your mother. In the meanwhile, take this."
And he placed in his hand a few lire. "Go, and keep up your courage; you
will find fellow-countrymen of yours in every direction, and you will
not be deserted. _Adios!_"

The boy said, "Thanks," without finding any other words to express
himself, went out with his bag, and having taken leave of his little
guide, he set out slowly in the direction of Boca, filled with sorrow
and amazement, across that great and noisy town.

Everything that happened to him from that moment until the evening of
that day ever afterwards lingered in his memory in a confused and
uncertain form, like the wild vagaries of a person in a fever, so weary
was he, so troubled, so despondent. And