To his eager inquiries of how he had been saved, how the
storm had terminated, and whether any but himself had survived the
wreck, she could not deny herself the gratification of answering, though
conscious of his weakness, and solemnly charged neither to let him speak
or hear, as she valued the recovery of his reason. She had faithfully
observed the charge for several days,--a dreadful trial!--and now she
felt like Fatima in Cymon, who, when threatened by the magician with the
loss of speech, exclaims, “Barbarian, will not my death then satisfy
you?”

She began her narrative, the effect of which was, to lull Melmoth into a
profound repose before half of it was concluded; he felt the full
benefit of the invalids mentioned in Spenser, who used to hire Irish
story-tellers, and found those indefatigable persons still pursuing the
tale when they awoke. At first Melmoth listened with eager attention;
soon he was in the situation of him described by Miss Baillie,

    “Who, half asleep, but faintly hears,
     The gossip’s tale hum in his ears.”

Soon after his lengthened respiration gave token that she was only
“vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;” while, as she closed the curtain,
and shaded the light, the images of her story were faintly painted on
his dream, that still seemed half a waking one. In the morning Melmoth sat up, gazed round, remembered every thing in a
moment, though nothing distinctly, but felt the most intense anxiety to
see the stranger saved from the shipwreck, who, he remembered the
gouvernante had told him, (while her words seemed to falter on the
threshold of his closing senses), was still alive, and an inmate in his
house, but weak and ill from the bruises he had received, and the
exhaustion and terror he had undergone. The opinions of the household on
the subject of this stranger were various. The knowledge of his being a
Catholic had conciliated their hearts, for the first act of his
recovered reason was to request that a Catholic priest might be sent
for, and the first use of his speech was to express his satisfaction
that he was in a country where he might enjoy the benefits of the rites
of his own church. So far all was well; but there was a mysterious
haughtiness and reserve about him, that somewhat repelled the officious
curiosity of his attendants. He spoke often to himself in a language
they did not understand; they hoped relief from the priest on this
point, but the priest, after listening long at the invalid’s door,
pronounced the language in which he was soliloquizing _not to be Latin_,
and, after a conversation of some hours with him, refused to tell what
language the stranger spoke to himself in, and forbid all inquiry on the
subject. This was bad enough; but, still worse, the stranger spoke
English with ease and fluency, and therefore could have no right, as all
the household argued, to torment them with those unknown sounds, that,
sonorous and powerful as they were, seemed to their ears like an
evocation of some invisible being. “He asks for what he wants in English,” said the harassed housekeeper,
“and he can call for candle in English, and he can say he’ll go to bed
in English; and why the devil can’t he do every thing in English?--He
can say his prayers too in English to that picture he’s always pulling
out of his breast and talking to, though it’s no saint, I am sure, he
prays to, (from the glimpse I got of it), but more like the
devil,--Christ save us!” All these strange rumours, and ten thousand
more, were poured into Melmoth’s ears, fast and faster than he could
receive them. “Is Father Fay in the house,” said he at last,
understanding that the priest visited the stranger every day; “if he be,
let me see him.” Father Fay attended him as soon as he quitted the
stranger’s apartment. He was a grave and decent priest, well “spoken of by those that were
without” the pale of his own communion; and as he entered the room,
Melmoth smiled at the idle tattle of his domestics. “I thank you for
your attention to this unfortunate gentleman, who, I understand, is in
my house.”--“It was my duty.”--“I am told he sometimes speaks in a
foreign tongue.” The priest assented. “Do you know what countryman he
is?” “He is a Spaniard,” said the priest. This plain, direct answer, had
the proper effect on Melmoth, of convincing him of its veracity, and of
there being no mystery in the business, but what the folly of his
servants had made. The priest proceeded to tell him the particulars of the loss of the
vessel. She was an English trader bound for Wexford or Waterford, with
many passengers on board; she had been driven up the Wicklow coast by
stress of weather, had struck on the night of the 19th October, during
the intense darkness that accompanied the storm, on a hidden reef of
rocks, and gone to pieces. Crew, passengers, all had perished, except
this Spaniard. It was singular, too, that this man had saved the life of
Melmoth. While swimming for his own, he had seen him fall from the rock
he was climbing, and, though his strength was almost exhausted, had
collected its last remains to preserve the life of a being who, as he
conceived, had been betrayed into danger by his humanity. His efforts
were successful, though Melmoth was unconscious of them; and in the
morning they were found on the strand, locked in each other’s hold, but
stiff and senseless. They shewed some signs of life when an attempt was
made to remove them, and the stranger was conveyed to Melmoth’s house. “You owe your life to him,” said the priest, when he had ended. “I shall
go and thank him for it this moment,” said Melmoth; but as he was
assisted to rise, the old woman whispered to him with visible terror,
“Jasus’ sake, dear, don’t tell him ye’re a Melmoth, for the dear life! He has been as mad as any thing out of Bedlam, since some jist mintioned
the name before him the ither night.” A sickening recollection of some
parts of the manuscript came over Melmoth at these words, but he
struggled with himself, and proceeded to the apartment of the stranger. The Spaniard was a man about thirty, of a noble form and prepossessing
manners. To the gravity of his nation was superadded a deeper tint of
peculiar melancholy. He spoke English fluently; and when questioned on
it by Melmoth, he remarked with a sigh, that he had learnt it in a
painful school. Melmoth then changed the subject, to thank him with
earnest gratitude for the preservation of his life. “Senhor,” said the
Spaniard, “spare me; if your life was no dearer to you than mine, it
would not be worth thanks.” “Yet you made the most strenuous exertions
to save it,” said Melmoth. “That was instinct,” said the Spaniard. “But
you also struggled to save mine,” said Melmoth. “That was instinct too
at the moment,” said the Spaniard; then resuming his stately politeness,
“or I should say, the influence of my better genius.