In one of their coves was the _Triton's_ native village, and the home of the Ferraguts--hunters of black pirates in other days, contrabandists at times in modern days, sailors in all ages, appearing originally, perhaps, from those first wooden horses that came leaping over the foam seething around the promontory.
In that home in the _Marina_ he wished to live and die, with no further desire of seeing more lands, with that sudden immovability that attacks the vagabonds of the waves and makes them fix themselves upon a ledge of the coast like a mollusk or bunch of seaweed.
Soon the _Triton_ grew tired of these strolls to the harbor.

The sea of Valencia was not a real sea for him.

The waters of the river and of the irrigation canals disturbed him.

When it rained in the mountains of Aragon, an earthy liquid always discharged itself into the Gulf, tinting the waves with flesh color and the foam with yellow.

Besides, it was impossible to indulge in his daily sport of swimming.