uxill's never came;
only his gay, braided hat of golden straw--that same sunflower thing he
waved to her, pushing from the strand--and now, to the last gallant, it
still saluted her. But Felipe's body floated to the marge, with one arm
encirclingly outstretched. Lock-jawed in grim death, the lover-husband
softly clasped his bride, true to her even in death's dream. Ah,
heaven, when man thus keeps his faith, wilt thou be faithless who
created the faithful one? But they cannot break faith who never plighted
it.

It needs not to be said what nameless misery now wrapped the lonely
widow. In telling her own story she passed this almost entirely over,
simply recounting the event. Construe the comment of her features as you
might, from her mere words little would you have weened that Hunilla was
herself the heroine of her tale. But not thus did she defraud us of our
tears. All hearts bled that grief could be so brave.

She but showed us her soul's lid, and the strange ciphers thereon
engraved; all within, with pride's timidity, was withheld. Yet was there
one exception. Holding out her small olive hand before her captain, she
said in mild and slowest Spanish, "Senor, I buried him;" then paused,
struggled as against the writhed coilings of a snake, and cringing
suddenly, leaped up, repeating in impassioned pain, "I buried him, my
life, my soul!"

Doubtless, it was by half-unconscious, automatic motions of her hands,
that this heavy-hearted one performed the final office for Felipe, and
planted a rude cross of withered sticks--no green ones might be had--at
the head of that lonely grave, where rested now in lasting un-complaint
and quiet haven he whom untranquil seas had overthrown.

But some dull sense of another body that should be interred, of another
cross that should hallow another grave--unmade as yet--some dull anxiety
and pain touching her undiscovered brother, now haunted the oppressed
Hunilla. Her hands fresh from the burial earth, she slowly went back to
the beach, with unshaped purposes wandering there, her spell-bound eye
bent upon the incessant waves. But they bore nothing to her but a dirge,
which maddened her to think that murderers should mourn. As time went
by, and these things came less dreamingly to her mind, the strong
persuasions of her Romish faith, which sets peculiar store by
consecrated urns, prompted her to resume in waking earnest that pious
search which had but been begun as in somnambulism. Day