“Nettuno! my brave, my faithful Nettuno!” he said.  “What are all these to me, without thee!  Thou alone lovedst me—­thou alone hast passed with me through fair and foul—­through good and evil, without change, or wish for another master!  When the pretended friend has been false, thou hast remained faithful!  When others were sycophants thou wert never a flatterer!”

Struck with this singular exhibition of sorrow, the good Augustine, who, until now, like all the others, had been looking to his own safety, or employed in restoring the exhausted, took advantage of the favorable change in the weather, and advanced with the language of consolation.

“Thou hast saved all our lives, bold mariner,” he said; “and there are those in the bark who will know how to reward thy courage and skill, Forget, then, thy dog, and indulge in a grateful heart to Maria and the saints, that they have been our friends and thine in this exceeding jeopardy.”

“Father, I have eaten with the animal—­slept with the animal—­fought, swum, and made merry with him, and I could now drown with him!  What are thy nobles and their gold to me, without my dog?  The gallant brute will die the death of despair, swimming about in search of the bark in the midst of the darkness, until even one of his high breed and courage must suffer his heart to burst.”

“Christians have been called into the dread presence, unconfessed and unshrived, to-night; and we should bethink us of their souls, rather than indulge in this grief in behalf of one that, however faithful, ends but an unreasoning and irresponsible existence.”

All this was thrown away upon Maso, who crossed himself habitually at the allusion to the drowned, but who did not the less bewail the loss of his dog, whom he seemed to love, like the affection that David bore for Jonathan, with a love surpassing that of women.  Perceiving that his counsel was useless, the good Augustine turned away, to knee and offer up his own orisons of gratitude, and to bethink him of the dead.

“Nettuno! povera, carissima bestia!” continued Maso, “whither art thou swimming, in this infernal quarrel between the air and water?  Would I were with thee, dog!  No mortal shall ever share the love I bore thee, povero Nettuno!—­I will never take another to my heart, like thee!”

The outbreaking of Maso’s grief was sudden, and it was brief in its duration.  In this respect it might be likened to the hurricane that had just passed.  Excessive violence, in both cases, appeared to bring its own remedy, for the irregular fitful gusts from the mountains had already ceased, and were succeeded by a strong but steady gale from the north; and the sorrow of Maso soon ended its characteristic plaints, to take a more continued and even character.