The latter, when tired of looking out into the darkness, he turned his gaze on the interior of the compartment, thought it strange enough that the girl who lay sleeping there before him, so much at her ease, should have come here instead of going into one of the compartments reserved for ladies. And to this reflection succeeded an idea which contracted his brows with a frown and curved his lips in a disdainful smile. A second glance which he cast at LucÍa, however, inspired him with more charitable thoughts. The light of the lamp, whose blue shade he drew aside in order to obtain a better view of the sleeping girl, fell directly upon her, but the flame flickered with the motion of the train, now leaving her form in shadow, now illuminating it brightly. The light brought into relief the salient points of her face and her form. The forehead, white as a jasmine flower, the rosy cheeks, the rounded chin, the slightly parted lips giving egress to the soft breath and disclosing to view the pearly teeth, gleamed, as the strong clear light fell upon them; one arm supported her head in the attitude of an antique bacchante, the whiteness of the hand contrasting with the blackness of the hair, while the other hand, also ungloved, hung by her side in the abandonment of sleep, the veins slightly swollen from the posture, which caused the blood to flow downward, the wedding-ring gleaming on the little finger. Every time the form of LucÍa came within the luminous zone, the chased metal buttons cast forth golden gleams, flashing red over the maroon cloth of the jacket; and here and there, beneath the pleated flounce bordering the skirt, could be caught glimpses of the lace of the petticoats and of the exquisite bronze leather shoe with its rounded heel. From the whole person of the sleeping girl there exhaled an indescribable aroma of freshness and purity, a breath of virtuousness, as it were, that could be perceived leagues away. This was not the bold adventuress, the low-flying butterfly in search of a light at which to scorch its wings; and the traveler, as this reflection passed through his mind, wondered at this young creature sleeping tranquilly here alone, exposed as she was to the risk of insult and to all sorts of disagreeable accidents, and he recalled to mind a picture he had once seen in a magnificent copy of illustrated fables representing Fortune awakening the careless boy sleeping on the brink of the well. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps his traveling-companion was some English or American miss who carried in her pocket as escort and attendant a six-barreled revolver. But although LucÍa was as fresh and robust as a Niobe—a type very common among Yankee girls—in certain details the Spanish type was so plainly visible that, as the traveler contemplated her, he was constrained to say to himself, “She does not bear the remotest resemblance to a foreigner.” He looked at her for some time longer, as if seeking in her appearance the solution of the mystery, then, slightly shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “After all, what does it matter to me,” he took a book from his portmanteau and began to read; but the wavering light making the letters dance on the white page at every jolt of the carriage, he soon closed the book again. He then pressed his forehead once more against the cold window-pane and thus remained, motionless and lost in thought.

The train hurried forward on its course, swaying and leaning to one side occasionally, stopping only for a moment at the stations, whose names the officials called out in gutteral and melancholy tones. After each stop the train, as if it had gathered fresh force from the momentary rest, hurried forward with greater speed than before, like a steed that feels the spur. Owing to the difference of temperature between the outer air and the air of the carriage, the window-pane was covered with a lace-like mist, and the traveler, becoming tired perhaps of dissolving it with his breath, devoted himself anew to the observation of the sleeping girl and, as the slow hours passed, yielding to an involuntary feeling which appeared ridiculous to himself, he grew more and more impatient, indignant, almost, to see the unruffled serenity of this insolent sleep; and he could not help wishing, in spite of himself, that his fellow-traveler might awake, if only to give him some opportunity of gratifying his curiosity concerning her. Perhaps there was no slight degree of envy mingled with this impatience. What delightful and desirable sleep! What beneficent repose! It was the untroubled sleep of youth, of innocent girlhood, of a tranquil conscience, of a rich and happy temperament, of health. Far from being disfigured, far from showing that cadaverical hollowness, that contraction of the corners of the mouth, that species of general distortion, which betrays in the countenance whose muscles are no longer carefully adjusted to an artificial expression, the corroding cares of sleepless hours, in LucÍa’s face shone the peacefulness which forms so large a part of the charm of sleeping childhood. Once, however, she softly sighed. The cold night air penetrated through the crevices of the closed windows. The traveler rose, and without observing that there was a bundle of shawls in the rack, opened his own portmanteau and taking out a fine Scotch woolen plaid spread it gently over the form of the sleeping girl. The latter turned slightly, without wakening, her head remaining in the shadow.

Outside, the telegraph posts looked like a row of specters, the trees shook their disordered locks, agitating their branches that seemed like arms stretched out in supplication; here and there a gray house rose solitary in the landscape, like the immense head of some granite sphinx—all confused, vague, blurred in outline, shifting as the clouds of smoke from the engine that enveloped the train like the breath of the fiery dragon enveloping his prey. Inside the carriage reigned unbroken silence; it seemed like an enchanted region. The traveler drew the blue curtain before the lamp, leaned back in a corner, closed his eyes and stretching out his legs rested his feet against the seat in front. In this way station after station was passed. He dozed a little and then, astonished at the prolonged sleep of LucÍa, rose, fearing lest she might have fainted. He went forward and leaned over her, and, having convinced himself of the peaceful and regular breathing of the young girl, returned to his seat.

A diffused and pale light began to shed itself over the landscape. Already could be discerned the shapes of mountains, trees, and huts. Night, retiring, swept away in her train the trembling stars, as a sultana gathers up her veil broidered with silvery arabesques. The slender circle of the waning moon grew pale and vanished in the sky, whose dark blue changed to the opaque blue of porcelain. A chill ran through the veins of the traveler, who pulled up the collar of his overcoat and instinctively stretched his feet toward the heater in whose metallic bosom the water danced with a gurgling sound. Suddenly the door of the compartment was opened and a morose-looking man, wearing a hat with a gilt band, and carrying in his hand a sort of tongs, or punch, entered hastily.

“Your tickets, SeÑor,” he cried, in short, imperious tones.

The traveler put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew from it a piece of yellow cardboard.

“The other, the ticket of the lady. Eh, SeÑora, SeÑora, your ticket!”

LucÍa was now partially awake, and throwing down the Scotch plaid she sat upright and began to rub her eyes with her knuckles, like a sleepy child. Her hair was disordered and flattened against the flushed cheek on which she had been lying, a loosened braid hung over one shoulder and, unbraided at the end, floated in three strands. Her crushed white petticoat rose rebellious under her cloth skirt, the string of one of her shoes had become untied and strayed over her instep. LucÍa looked around her with wandering and uncertain gaze; she seemed serious and surprised.

“The ticket, SeÑora, the ticket!” the official continued to cry, in no very amiable tone of voice.

“The ticket?” she repeated. And she looked around again, unable to shake off completely the stupor of sleep.

“Yes, SeÑora, the ticket,” repeated the official, still less amiably than before.

“Miranda! Miranda!” cried LucÍa at last, linking together her scattered recollections of the day before. And she looked anxiously on all sides, amazed at not seeing Miranda in the compartment.

“SeÑor de Miranda has my ticket,” she said, addressing the official, as if the latter must of necessity know who Miranda was.

The official, puzzled, turned toward the traveler, his right hand extended for the ticket.

“My name is not Miranda,” said the latter quietly. And as he saw the angry official again turn rudely to LucÍa, he said to her.

“Are you traveling alone, SeÑora?”

“No, SeÑor,” answered LucÍa, now greatly distressed. “Of course I am not traveling alone; I am traveling with Don Aurelio Miranda, my husband,” and as she pronounced the words, she smiled involuntarily at the new and curious sound of the expression, uttered by her lips.

“She seems very young to be married,” said the traveler to himself; but, remembering the ring he had seen gleaming on her finger, he asked aloud:

“Where did you take the train?”

“At Leon. But is not Miranda here? Holy Virgin! SeÑor, tell me—allow me——”

And forgetting that the train was in motion she was going to open the door hastily when the official interposed, seizing her by the arm with force.

“Eh, SeÑora,” he said in a rude voice, “do you want to kill yourself? Are you mad? And let us end this at once. I want the ticket.”

“I haven’t it. How can I give it to you if I haven’t it?” exclaimed LucÍa, greatly distressed, her eyes filling with tears.

“You will have to buy one at the next station then, and pay a fine,” growled the official, more angrily than before.

“Don’t trouble the lady any more,” said the traveler, interfering very opportunely, for tears as big as filberts now began to course down LucÍa’s cheeks. “Insolent!” he continued angrily. “Do you not see that some unforeseen accident has happened to this lady? Come, take yourself off or——”

“But you see, sir, we have our duties to consider, our responsibilities——”

“Say no more, but go. Take this for the lady’s fare.”

As he spoke, he put his right hand into the pocket of his overcoat and drew from it some greasy-looking papers of a greenish color, the sight of which at once restored serenity to the frowning brow of the official who, as he took the proffered bill, lowered by two or three tones the pitch of his gruff voice.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, placing it in his soiled and well-worn pocket-book. “Your word would have been sufficient. I did not recognize you at first, but I recollect your face very well now, and I remember having often seen both you and your father, SeÑor de Artegui——”

“Well then,” rejoined the traveler, “if you know me, you know that I am not in the habit of wasting words. Go.” And pushing the man out of the compartment, he closed the door behind him. But he opened it again quickly and calling to the official, who was running with incredible agility along the narrow ledge beside the steps, he cried to him in sonorous tones:

“Hist, hist! If you should come across a gentleman called Miranda in any of the carriages, let him know that his wife is here.”

This done he seated himself again in his corner, and lowering the window eagerly drew in the vivifying morning air. LucÍa, drying her eyes, which had twice that day shed unaccustomed tears, felt at the same time extraordinary uneasiness and an inexplicable sense of contentment. The action of the traveler caused her the profound joy which generous actions are apt to awaken in souls yet unspoiled by contact with the world. She ardently desired to thank him, but she could not summon courage to do so. He, meantime, sat watching the sunrise with as much intentness as if it were the most novel and entertaining spectacle in the world. At last the young girl, conquering her timidity, with trembling lips said the most stupid thing which it was possible, under the circumstances, to say (as usually happens when one prepares a speech for any occasion beforehand):

“SeÑor—I cannot pay you what I owe you until Miranda comes. He has the money——”

“I do not lend money,” answered the traveler quietly, without turning around, or removing his gaze from the eastern sky, where dawn was breaking through light clouds touched with gold and crimson.

“Well, but it is not just that you should—in this way—without knowing who I am——”

The traveler did not answer.

“But tell me, for Heaven’s sake!” resumed LucÍa, in the silvery tones of her infantile voice, “what can have become of Miranda? What do you think of the situation in which I am placed? What am I to do now?”

The traveler turned round in his seat and confronted LucÍa with the air of a man who finds himself forced to take part in a matter that does not concern him but who resigns himself to the necessity. The fresh tones of LucÍa’s voice suggested to him the same reflection as before:

“It seems impossible that she should be married. Any one would think she was still in the school-room.” And aloud he said:

“Let us see, SeÑora. Where did you part from your husband? Do you remember?”

“I cannot tell. I fell asleep.”

“And where did you fall asleep? Can you not remember that either?”

“At the station where we took supper. At Venta de BaÑos. Miranda got out to see to the luggage, telling me to rest awhile—to try to sleep——”

“And you tried to some purpose!” murmured the traveler, with a slight smile. “You have slept ever since—five hours at a stretch.”

“But—I got up so early yesterday. I was worn out.”

And LucÍa rubbed her eyes as if they were still heavy with sleep. Then taking from her hair two or three hair-pins, she fastened back the rebellious braids with them.

“You say,” questioned the traveler, “that you have come from Leon?”

“Yes, SeÑor. The wedding was at eleven in the morning, but I had to get up early to arrange about the refreshments,” said LucÍa, with the simplicity of a girl unaccustomed to social usages. “It was half-past three when we left Leon.”

The traveler looked at her, beginning to understand the mystery. The girl gave him the key to the woman.

“I might have known it,” he said to himself. “You traveled together as far as Venta de BaÑos?” he asked LucÍa aloud.

“Yes, yes; we took supper there. Miranda, no doubt, stayed there to check the luggage.”

“Impossible. The operation of checking the luggage is always over in time for the passengers to take the train. Some unforeseen accident, some mischance must have occurred.”

“Do you think—tell me frankly—that he could have left me on purpose?”

So childlike and real a grief was depicted on LucÍa’s countenance as she uttered these words, that the serious lips of the traveler were once more involuntarily curved in a smile.

“Just think of it!” she added, nodding her head gravely and thoughtfully. “And I, who fancied that when a woman married she had some one to keep her company and to take care of her! Some one to give her his protection and support! Well, if this can happen before twenty-four hours have passed—what is to be expected afterward!”

“Undoubtedly—undoubtedly your husband is much more distressed at what has happened than you are. Believe me, something has occurred of which we know nothing, and which will explain the conduct of SeÑor Miranda. Or have you any reason, any motive to suspect that—that he wished to abandon you?”

“Motive! Of course not! None whatever! SeÑor de Miranda is a very reliable person.”

“You call him SeÑor de Miranda?”

“No—he told me yesterday to call him Aurelio—but as I have not much confidence with him yet—and as he is older than I—in short, it did not come to my tongue.”

The traveler closed his lips, forcing back a whole flood of indiscreet questions which crowded to his mind, and turned again to the window in order not to lose the magnificent spectacle offered him by nature. The sun was rising above the summit of a neighboring mountain, dispelling by his rays the morning mists that sank slowly into the valley in lace-like fragments, and flooding the clear blue atmosphere with a fresh, soft light. Down the granite flank of the mountain, glistening with mica, descended a foaming torrent, and through the dark shadow of the oak groves could be caught a glimpse of a little meadow in the tender green tones of young grass, where a flock of sheep were browsing; their white forms starred the verdant carpet like enormous flakes of wool. Through the deafening noise of the train one might fancy one could hear, in that picturesque and sunny spot, distant trills of birds, and the silvery tinkling of bells.

After gazing for some time at the beautiful view, now fading into the distance, the traveler sank back wearily into his corner, his arms dropped powerless by his side, and a faint sigh, which told of fatigue rather than of sorrow, escaped from his lips.

The sun was mounting in the heavens, and his rays began to dance on the windows of the carriage and on the brows of its two occupants, seeming to invite them to look at each other, and, simultaneously, they furtively measured each other with their glances, whence resulted a scene in dumb show, represented by the girl with infantile naturalness and with frowning reserve by the man.

The traveler was a man in the vigor of his age and in the age of vigor. He might be, at a rough guess, from twenty-eight to thirty-two years of age. His pale countenance was a degree more pale on the cheeks, generally the seat of what, in the language of poetry, are called “roses.” Notwithstanding this, he did not seem to be of a sickly constitution. His frame was well proportioned, his beard was black and fine, his hair soft and wavy, straying where it would without regard to symmetry or art, but not without a certain fitness in its natural arrangement that gave character and beauty to the head. His features were well formed, but overshadowed by melancholy and stamped with the traces of suffering—not the physical suffering which undermines the health, wastes the tissues, withers the skin, and dulls or glazes the eye, but the moral, or, rather, the intellectual suffering which only deepens the circles under the eyes, furrows the brow, blanches the temples, and concentrates the gaze, at the same time rendering the bearing careless and apathetic. Apathy—this was what was most apparent in the traveler’s manner. All his attitudes and gestures expressed fatigue and exhaustion. Something there was broken or out of order in that noble mechanism,—some one of the springs, which, when snapped, interrupt the functions of the inner life. Even in his attire the languor and despondency which were so plainly visible in his countenance were perceptible. It was not negligence, it was indifference and dejection of spirits that were expressed by the dark gray suit, the gold chain,—out of place on a journey,—the cravat, carelessly and loosely tied, the new SuÈde gloves of delicate color, that ten minutes’ wear would soil. The traveler did not possess that exquisite and intelligent taste in dress which gives attention to details, which makes a science of the toilet; in him was revealed the man who is superior to fashion because, while not ignorant of it, he disdains it—a grade of culture which belongs to a higher sphere than fashion, which after all is a social distinction, and he who rises superior to fashion is also superior to social distinctions. Miranda wore the livery of elegance, and therefore, before being attracted by Miranda’s person, the gaze was attracted by his attire, while that which attracted the attention in Artegui was Artegui himself. The carelessness of his attire did not detract from, it rather made more evident the distinction of his person; the various articles composing his dress were rich of their kind: the cloth was English, the linen of the finest quality, and both shoes and gloves were of the best make. All this LucÍa noted instinctively rather than intelligently, for, inexperienced and new to the world, she had not yet arrived at an understanding of the philosophy of dress,—a science in which women in general are so learned.

Artegui, on his side, regarded her as the traveler, returning from snow-clad and desert lands, regards some smiling valley which he chances upon by the way. Never before had he seen united to the grace of youth so much vigor and luxuriant bloom. Notwithstanding the night spent in the railway-carriage, the face of LucÍa was as fresh as a rose, and her disordered hair, flattened down in places, gave her the air of a naiad, emerging bareheaded and dewy from the bath. Her eyes, her features, all were smiling, and the sun, indiscreet chronicler of faded complexions, played harmlessly over the golden down that covered the cheeks of the young girl, imparting to them the warm tones of antique marble.

LucÍa waited for the traveler to speak to her and her glance invited him to do so. But, as he did not seem disposed to gratify her wishes, she resolved, when some time had elapsed, to return to the charge, and cried:

“Well, and what am I going to do? You do not tell me how I am to get out of this difficulty.”

“To what place were you and your husband going, SeÑora?” he asked.

“We were going to France, to Vichy,—where the doctors had ordered him to take the waters.”

“To Vichy, direct? Did you not intend to stop at any place on the way?”

“Yes, at Bayonne; we were to rest there for a while.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Quite certain. SeÑor de Miranda explained it to me a hundred times.”

“In that case I will tell you what my opinion is. There is no doubt that your husband, detained by some accident, the nature of which we need not now stop to inquire into, remained in Venta de BaÑos last night. As a precautionary measure we will send him, if you wish, a telegram from Hendaya; but what I suppose is that he will take the first train which leaves for France to join you there. If we go back you run the risk of crossing him on the way, and thus losing time, besides giving yourself unnecessary trouble. If you get out at the first station we come to and wait for him there——”

“Yes, that would be the best thing to do.”

“No, because he would not know you had done so; and as several hours have already elapsed, and he will be on his way to join you, and we have no means of letting him know, and the train stops only for a moment at those stations, I do not think it would be best. Besides, you might both have to remain for a considerable time in some wretched railway station waiting for another train. That course is not advisable.”

“Well, then, what do you suggest?” said the young girl eagerly, and with the greatest confidence, encouraged by the “if we go back” of the traveler, which tacitly promised her assistance and support.

“To go on to Bayonne, SeÑora; it is the only course to pursue. Your husband will probably take the first train for that place. We shall arrive in the afternoon, and he will arrive in the evening. Since he has not telegraphed to you to return (which he could have done), it is because he is on his way to join you.”

LucÍa interposed no objection. Ignorant of the route herself, she felt a singular relief in trusting to the experience of another. She turned toward the window in silence and followed with her gaze the broken line of the sierra, which stood sharply defined against the clear sky. The train began to move more slowly. They were nearing a station. “What place is this?” she asked, turning toward her companion.

“Miranda de Ebro,” he answered laconically.

“How thirsty I am,” murmured LucÍa. “I would give anything for a glass of water.”

“Let us get out; you can get some water at the restaurant,” responded Artegui, whom this unexpected adventure was beginning to draw from his abstraction. And springing down before her he offered his arm to LucÍa, who took it without ceremony, and, urged by thirst, hurried toward the bar, where some half-empty bottles, half-eaten oranges, jars of fruit syrups and flasks of orange-flower water, disputed with one another the possession of a zinc-covered counter and some yellow painted shelves. The water was served, and, without waiting for the sugar to dissolve, LucÍa drank it quickly, in gulps, and then shook the moisture from her fingers, drying them with her handkerchief.

Artegui paid.

“Thank you,” she said, looking at her taciturn companion. “It was delicious—when one is thirsty—Thank you, SeÑor—What is your name?”

“Ignacio Artegui,” he answered, with a look of surprise.

Ingenuousness sometimes resembles boldness, and it was only the innocent look of the clear eyes fixed upon his that enabled the traveler to distinguish between them in the present instance.

“Is there anything else you would like?” he said. “Some breakfast? a cup of coffee or chocolate?”

“No, no, at present I am not at all hungry.”

“Wait for me in the carriage, then, I am going to settle about your ticket.”

He returned shortly, and the train soon started on its way, the motion that by night had seemed vertiginous, now seeming only tiresome. The sun mounted toward the zenith, and warm, heavy gusts of wind, like fiery breaths, stirred the atmosphere. A cloud of coal dust from the engine entered through the window and settled on the white muslin covers that protected the backs of the seats. At times, contrasting with the penetrating odor of the coal, came a puff of woody perfume from the oak groves and the meadows stretching on either hand. The landscape was full of character. It was the wild and beautiful scenery of the Basque provinces. All along the road rose frowning heights crowned by massive casemates and strong castles, recently constructed for the purpose of holding in subjection those indomitable hills. On the sides of the mountain could be discerned broad trenches and lines of redoubts, like scars on the face of a veteran. Tall and graceful poplars girdled the well-cultivated, green and level plains, like necklaces of emerald. Above the neat, white houses rose the belfry towers. LucÍa crossed herself at sight of them.

Passing by Vitoria a thought of home came to her mind. It was suggested by the long rows of elms that surround and beautify the city.

“They look like the trees in Leon,” she murmured with a sigh.

And she added in a lower voice, as if speaking to herself:

“I wonder what poor papa is doing now?”

“Does your father reside in Leon?” asked Artegui.

“Yes, in Leon. If he were to know of what has happened, he would be terribly distressed. After all the charges and the advice he gave me! To beware of thieves—not to get sick—not to go in the sun—not to get wet. When I think of it——”

“Is your father an old man?”

“He is getting on in years, but he is strong and well-preserved, and handsomer in my eyes than gold. I have the good luck to have the best father in all Spain—he has no will but mine.”

“You are an only child, perhaps?”

“Yes, SeÑor, and I lost my mother when I was but that high,” and LucÍa held out her open hand, palm downward, on a level with her knee. “Why, I was not even weaned when my mother died! And see! that is the only misfortune that has ever happened to me; for, except in that, there may be plenty of happy people in the world, but no one could be happier than I have been.”

Artegui fixed on her his deep and imperious eyes.

“You were happy?” he repeated, as if echoing the young girl’s thought.

“Yes, indeed; Father Urtazu used sometimes to say to me, ‘Take care, child, God is paying you in advance; and afterward, when you die, do you know what he is going to say to you? That there is nothing owing to you.’”

“So that,” said Artegui, “you missed nothing in your quiet life in Leon? You wished for nothing?”

“Yes, sometimes I had longings, but without knowing precisely what for. I think now that what I wanted was change—to travel. But I was never impatient, because I always felt that sooner or later I should obtain what I wished. Was I not right? Father Urtazu used to laugh at me sometimes, saying, ‘Patience, every autumn brings its fruit.’”

“Father Urtazu is a Jesuit?”

“Yes, and so learned! There is nothing he does not know. Sometimes, to vex DoÑa Romualda, the directress of the seminary I attended, I used to say to her, ‘I would rather have Father Urtazu for my teacher than you.’”

“And now,” said Artegui, with the brutal curiosity that prompts the fingers to tear apart the bud, leaf by leaf, until its inmost heart is laid bare, “and now you are happier than ever before? I should say so! Just think of it—to be married, nothing less!”

LucÍa, without perceiving the ironical accent in which her companion uttered these words, answered frankly:

“Well, I will tell you. I always wanted to marry to please my father. I did not want to torment him with all that nonsense about lovers with which other girls torment their parents. My friends, that is some of them, if they chanced to see an officer of the garrison pass before their window—lo! on the instant they were dying in love with him, and it was nothing but sending and receiving letters. I used to be amazed at their falling in love in that way, just from seeing a man pass by in the street—and as I had never felt anything for any one of those men, and as I already knew SeÑor de Miranda, and father liked him so much, I thought to myself, ‘It is the best thing I can do; in this way I shall have no trouble about the matter,’—was I not right?—‘I have only to close my eyes, say yes, and the thing is done. Father will be pleased, and I also.’”

Artegui looked so fixedly at her, that LucÍa felt her cheeks burn beneath the ardor of his gaze, and blushing to the roots of her hair, she murmured:

“I tell you all the nonsensical thoughts that come into my head. As we have nothing else to talk about——”

He continued to search with his gaze the open and youthful countenance before him, as the steel blade probes the living flesh. He knew very well that frankness and candor are often more truly the signs of innocence than reticence and reserve, and yet he could not but marvel at the extreme simplicity of the young girl. It was necessary in order to understand it, to consider that the vigorous physical health of the body had preserved the spirit pure. Fever had never rendered languid the gaze of those eyes with their bluish cornea; the excitation that wastes the strength of the growing girl, in the trying age between ten and fifteen, had never paled those fresh and rosy lips. LucÍa might be likened to a rosebud with all its petals closed, raising itself proudly in the midst of its brilliant green leaves upon its strong and graceful stem.

The heat, which had been steadily increasing, was now overpowering. When they arrived at AlsÁsua, LucÍa again complained of thirst and Artegui, offering her his arm, conducted her to the dining-room of the restaurant, reminding her that as several hours had passed since she had supped, it would be well to eat something now.

“Breakfast for two,” he called to the waiter, clapping his hands to attract the man’s attention.

The waiter approached, his napkin thrown over his shoulder. He had a bronzed face and a soldierly air which accorded ill with the patent leather shoes, and hair flattened down with bandoline, which is the livery imposed by the public on its servants in these places. A broad scar, running across the left cheek from the end of the mustache down the neck, added to his martial appearance. The waiter stared fixedly at Artegui for a moment, then, giving a cry, or rather a sort of canine bark, he exclaimed:

“It is either he himself or the devil in his shape! SeÑorito Ignacio! It is a cure for sore eyes——”

“You here, Sardiola?” said Artegui quietly. “We shall have a good breakfast then, for you will see to it that we are well served.”

“Yes, SeÑorito, I am here. Afterward,” he said, laying marked emphasis on the word, and lowering his voice, “as I found everything belonging to me destroyed—the house burned to the ground and the field laid waste—I set to work to earn my living as best I could. And you, SeÑorito, are you going to France?”

“I am going to France, but if you keep on chattering we shall have no breakfast to-day.”

“That would be a pretty thing——”

Sardiola spoke a few words in the Biscayan dialect, bristling with z’s, k’s, and t’s, to some of his fellow-waiters. Breakfast was at once served to Artegui and LucÍa, the man taking his stand behind the chair of the former.

“So you are going to France?” he went on. “And the SeÑora DoÑa Armanda—is she well?”

“Not very well,” answered Ignacio, the cloud deepening on his brow. “She suffers a great deal. When I left her, however, she was feeling slightly better.”

“When she sees you at home once more she will be quite well again.”

And looking at LucÍa, and striking his forehead with his clenched hand, Sardiola suddenly cried:

“The more so as—— How stupid I am! Why of course the SeÑora DoÑa Armanda will get well when she sees joy entering her doors! What a pleasure to see you married, SeÑorito, and to so lovely a girl! I wish you every happiness!”

“Dolt!” said Ignacio, gruffly and impatiently, “this lady is not my wife.”

“Well, it is a pity she is not,” answered the Biscayan, while LucÍa looked smilingly at him. “You would make a pair that—not if you were to search the wide world through—only that the SeÑorita——”

“Go on,” said LucÍa, intensely amused, busying herself in removing the tissue paper from an orange.

“Shall I, SeÑorito Ignacio?”

Artegui shrugged his shoulders. Sardiola, taking this for a sign of assent, launched forth:

“The young lady looks as if she were never out of temper, and you—you are always as if you had just received a beating. In that you would not be a very good match for each other.”

LucÍa burst into a laugh and looked at Artegui, who smiled indulgently, which encouraged her to laugh still more. The breakfast proceeded in the same cordial manner, animated by Sardiola’s chatter and by the infantile delight of LucÍa. On their return to the cars the waiter accompanied them to the very door of the compartment and, had LucÍa been owner of the arms of Artegui, she would have thrown them around Sardiola’s neck when the latter repeated, raising his eyes to heaven, and in the tone in which one prays, when one prays in earnest:

“The Virgin of BegoÑa be with you, SeÑorito—God grant that you may find DoÑa Armanda well—command me as if I were a dog, your dog. Remember that I am here at your service.”

“Thank you,” said Artegui, assuming once more his habitual look of gloomy reserve.

The train started and Sardiola remained standing on the platform waving an adieu with his napkin, without changing his attitude, until the smoke of the engine had vanished on the horizon. LucÍa looked at Artegui and questions crowded to her lips.

“That poor man is greatly attached to you,” she said at last.

“I was so unfortunate as to render him a service at one time,” answered Ignacio, “and since then——”

“Hear that! and you call that a misfortune. Well, then, you have been very unfortunate ever since this morning, for you have rendered me a hundred services already.”

Artegui smiled again as he looked at the young girl.

“The misfortune does not consist,” he said, “in rendering a service, but in the recipient showing so much gratitude.”

“Well, then, I too suffer from the same disease as Sardiola, and I am not ashamed of it,” declared LucÍa; “you shall see by and by.”

“Bah! all that is wanting is that I should have people grateful to me without cause,” responded Artegui, in the same festive tone. “It is not so bad when there is some motive for gratitude, as in the case of that poor Sardiola.”

“What did you do for him?” asked LucÍa, unable to keep her inquisitive lips closed.

“Not much. I cured him of a wound—a rather serious one.”

“The wound that left that scar on his cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“An amateur one, and that by chance.” Artegui relapsed into silence, and LucÍa did not venture to ask any more questions. The heat continued to increase. Although it was autumn the weather was suffocating, and the dust from the engine, diffused through the heated atmosphere, was stifling. The scenery grew wilder as they proceeded, the country growing more and more mountainous and rugged. Occasionally they entered a tunnel, and then the darkness, the rush of the train, the damp, underground air, penetrating into the compartment, mitigated to some extent the intense heat.

LucÍa fanned herself with a newspaper, arranged for her by Artegui in the form of a shell; light, transparent drops of perspiration dotted her rosy neck, her temples, and her chin. From time to time she dried them with her handkerchief. The tresses of her hair, uncurled and damp, clung to her forehead. She loosened her stiff collar, took off her necktie, which was strangling her, and leaned back languidly in her corner. In order to soften the light in the compartment, Artegui drew the little curtains of the low windows, producing a vague and mysterious bluish atmosphere that gave the place the air of a submarine grotto, the noise of the train, not unlike the roar of the ocean, contributing to the illusion. Insensible to the heat, Artegui raised the curtain slightly and looked out at the landscape—the oak groves, the sierra, the deep valleys. Once he caught a glimpse of a picturesque train of pilgrims. The scene vanished quickly, but he had time to distinguish the forms of the pilgrims, their scapulars hanging around their necks, wending along the narrow road on foot or in wagons drawn by oxen, the men wearing the red or blue flat woolen cap of the country, the women with their heads covered with white handkerchiefs. The procession resembled the descent of the shepherds in the Christmas representation of the Adoration. The bright sunshine, falling full upon the figures of the pilgrims, bestowed upon them the crude tones of figures of painted clay. Artegui drew LucÍa’s attention to the scene; she raised the curtain in her turn, leaned out of the window, and gazed at the spectacle until a bend of the road and a rapid movement of the train hid the picture from view. It seemed as if the tunnels took a malicious pleasure in shutting out from their sight the most beautiful views on the route. Did they catch sight of a smiling hill, a group of leafy trees, a pleasant meadow, lo! the train entered a tunnel and they remained motionless at the window, daring neither to speak nor move, as if they had suddenly entered a church. LucÍa, now somewhat accustomed to the heat, looked with great interest at the various objects along the road. The tall match factories, with their white-washed walls and large painted signs, pleased her greatly, and at Hernani she clapped her hands with delight on catching a glimpse, to the left of the road, of a magnificent English park, with its gay flower knots contrasting with the green grass, and its stately coniferous trees, with their symmetrical pendant foliage. At Pasajes, after the wearisome monotony of the mountains, their eyes were at last refreshed with a view of the blue sea that stretched before them, its surface gently rippling while the vessels anchored in the bay swayed with a gentle motion, and a sea-breeze, pungent and salt, fluttered the silk curtains of the carriage, fanning the perspiring brows of the weary travelers. LucÍa gazed in wonder at the ocean, which she had never seen before, and when the tunnel suddenly and without warning spread a black veil over the scene, she remained leaning on her elbows at the window, with dilated eyes and parted lips, lost in admiration.

As the hours went by, and they advanced on their journey, Artegui lost something of his statue-like coldness, and, growing by degrees more communicative, explained to LucÍa the various views of this moving panorama. The young girl listened with that species of attention which is so delightful to a teacher—that of the pupil, enthusiastic and docile at the same time. Artegui, when he chose to speak, could be eloquent. He described the customs of the country; he related many particulars concerning the villages and the hamlets of which they caught glimpses on their way. Eyes fixed and observant, a countenance all attention, changing its expression at the narrator’s will, responded to his words. So that, when the train stopped at IrÚn, and they heard the first words spoken in a foreign tongue, LucÍa exclaimed, as if with regret:

“What! Are we there already?”

“In France? Yes,” answered Artegui, “but we have still some distance to travel before reaching Bayonne. They examine the luggage here; this is the custom-house of IrÚn. They will not trouble us much, though; people coming from France to Spain are the victims of the custom-house officials, but no one supposes that those who travel from Spain to France carry contraband articles or new clothes——”

“But I carry new clothes!” exclaimed LucÍa. “My wedding outfit. Do you see that big trunk that they have set there on the counter? That is mine, and that other is Miranda’s, and the hat-box——”

“Give me the check and the keys to have them examined.”

“The check and the keys? Miranda has them—not I.”

“In that case you will be left without luggage. You will have to remain here until your husband joins you.”

LucÍa looked at Artegui with something like dismay, but the next moment she burst out laughing.

“Left without luggage!” she repeated.

And her silvery laughter burst forth afresh. She thought it a delightful incident to be left without her luggage; she seemed to herself like a child lost in the streets, who is taken in charge by some charitable person until her home can be found. It was a perfect adventure. Child as LucÍa was, she might have taken it either as matter for laughter or matter for tears; she took it as matter for laughter, because she was happy, and until they reached Hendaya the burst of merriment that enlivened the carriage did not cease. At Hendaya the dinner served to prolong these moments of perfect cordiality. The elegant dining-room of the railway station at Hendaya, adorned with all that taste and attention to detail displayed by the French to serve, attract, and squeeze the customer, invited to intimacy, with its long and discreet curtains of subdued hues, its enormous chimney-piece of bronze and marble, its splendid sideboard surmounted by a pair of large round Japanese vases, ornamented with strange plants and birds, gleaming with Ruolz silver, and laden with mountains of opaque china. Artegui and LucÍa selected a small table with two covers where, sitting opposite each other, they could converse together in low tones so that the firm, grave sounds of their Spanish speech might not attract attention amid the confused and gliding sounds of the chorus of French accents proceeding from the general conversation at the large table. Artegui played the rÔle of butler and cupbearer, naming the dishes, pouring out the wines, carving the meat, anticipating LucÍa’s childish caprices, shelling the almonds and peeling the apples for her, and dipping the ruddy grapes into the crystal bowl of water. A cloud seemed to have been lifted from his now animated countenance and his movements, although calm and composed, showed less weariness and listlessness than before.

When they re-entered the carriage, night was approaching, and the sun was sinking in the west with the swiftness peculiar to autumn. They closed the windows on one side of the compartment and the flickering light played on the ceiling of the carriage, appearing and disappearing like children playing hide and seek. The mountains grew black, the clouds in the distance turned flame color, then faded, one by one, like a rose of fire dropping its glowing petals. The conversation between Artegui and LucÍa languished and then ceased entirely, both relapsing into a gloomy silence,—he showing his accustomed air of fatigue, she lost in a profound revery, dominated by the saddening influence of the hour. The twilight deepened, and from one of the carriages could be heard rising above the noise made in its slow progress by the train, a sorrowful and passionate chorus in a foreign tongue; a zortzico, intoned in deep, full voices by a party of young Biscayans on their way to Bayonne. Now and then a cascade of mocking laughter interrupted the song; then the chorus would rise again, tender and melancholy as a sigh, toward the heavens, black now as ink. LucÍa listened, and the train, slowly making the descent, accompanied with its deep vibration the voices of the singers.

The arrival at Bayonne surprised Artegui and LucÍa as if they had wakened from a prolonged sleep. Artegui quickly drew his hand away from the knob of the window on which it had been resting and the young girl looked around her with an air of surprise. She noticed that it had grown cool, and she buttoned her collar and put on her necktie. Men with woolen caps, girls wearing handkerchiefs fastened at the back of the head, a stream of passengers of diverse appearance and social condition pushed and elbowed one another and bustled about in the large station. Artegui gave his arm to his companion so that they might not lose each other in the crowd.

“Had your husband decided on any particular hotel at which to stop in Bayonne?” he asked.

“I think,” murmured LucÍa, making an effort to remember, “that I heard him mention a hotel called San EstÉban. I remembered it because I have a very pretty picture of that saint in my missal.”

“Saint Étienne,” said Artegui to the driver of the omnibus, who, seated on the box, his head turned toward them, was waiting for orders.

The horses set off at a heavy trot, and the vehicle rolled along through the well-paved streets until it reached a house with a narrow door, marble steps flanked by consumptive-looking plants in pots, and bright gas-lamps, before which it stopped.

A fair, tall woman, neatly dressed, wearing a freshly ironed pleated cap, came to the door to receive them and hastened to give Artegui’s valise to a waiter.

“The lady and gentleman would like to have a room?” she murmured in French, in mellifluous and obsequious tones.

“Two,” answered Artegui laconically.

“Two,” she repeated in Spanish, although with a transpyrenean accent. “And would the lady and gentleman like them connected?”

“Entirely separate.”

“Tout À fait. They shall be prepared.”

The landlady called a chambermaid, no less neat and obliging than herself, who, taking two keys from the board on which were hanging the keys of the hotel, ascended the waxed stairs, followed by Artegui and LucÍa.

She stopped on the third landing, a little out of breath, and opening the doors of two rooms adjoining each other, but separate, struck a match, lighted the candles on the chimney-piece of each and then withdrew. Artegui and LucÍa stood silent for a few moments at the doors of their respective rooms; at last, the former said:

“You must want to wash your hands and face and brush the dust of the road from your dress and rest for a while. I will leave you now. Call the chambermaid if you should require anything; here every one speaks a little Spanish.”

“Good-by,” she answered mechanically.

When the noise made by the closing of the door announced to LucÍa that she was alone, and she cast her eyes around this strange room, dimly illumined by the light of the candles, the excitement and bewilderment she had felt during the journey vanished; she called to mind her little room at Leon, simple but dainty as a silver cup, with its holy-water font, its saint, its boxes of mignonette, its work-table, its capacious cedar wardrobe filled with freshly ironed linen. She thought, too, of her father, of Carmela and Rosarito, of all the sweet past. Then sadness overpowered her; fears, vague but none the less real, assailed her; the position in which she found herself seemed to her strange and alarming: the present looked threatening, the future dark. She sank into an easy-chair and gazed fixedly at the light of the candles with the abstracted look of one lost in deep and painful meditation.