Nieves spent a restless night and when she awoke in the morning the incidents of the preceding evening presented themselves to her mind vaguely and confusedly as if she had dreamed them; she could not believe in the reality of Segundo's singular hardihood, that taking possession of her, that audacious outrage, that she had not known how to resent. How compromising the position in which the daring of the poet had placed her! And what if anyone had noticed it? When she bade good-night to the girls who had been sitting with her at the window, they had smiled in a way that was—well, odd; Carmen Agonde, the fat girl with the sleepy eyes and placid temper, gave evidence at times of a strain of malice. But, no; how could they have observed anything? The shawl she had worn was large and had covered her whole figure. And Nieves took the shawl, put it on and looked at herself in the mirror, using a handglass to obtain a complete view of her person, in order to assure herself that, enveloped in this garment, it was impossible for an arm passed around her waist to be seen. She was engaged in this occupation when the door opened and someone entered. She started and dropped the glass.

It was her husband, looking more sallow than ever, and bearing the traces of suffering stamped on his countenance. Nieves' heart seemed to turn within her. Could it be possible that Don Victoriano suspected anything? Her apprehensions were soon relieved, however, when she heard him speak, with ill-disguised pique, of the insulting behavior of the Romerists and the destruction of the balloon. The Minister sought an outlet for his mortification by complaining of the pain of the pin-prick.

"But did you ever see the like, child? What do you think of it?" he said.

He then went on to complain of the noise of the fair, which had lasted all night and had not allowed him to close his eyes. Nieves agreed that it was extremely annoying; she, too, had been unable to sleep. The Minister opened the window and the noise reached them louder and more distinct. It resembled a grand chorale, or symphony, composed of human voices, the neighing of horses and mules, the grunting of pigs, the lowing of cows, calves, and oxen, hucksters' criers, noises of quarreling, songs, blasphemies, and sounds of musical instruments. The flood-tide of the fair had submerged Vilamorta.

From the window could be seen its waves, a surging sea of men and animals crowded together in inextricable confusion. Suddenly among the throng of peasants a drove of six or eight calves would rush with helpless terror; a led mule had cleared a space around him, dealing kicks to right and left, screams and groans of pain were heard on all sides, but those behind continued pushing those in front and the space was filled up again. The venders of felt hats were a curious sight as they walked about with their merchandise on their heads, towers of twenty or thirty hats piled one above another, like Chinese pagodas. Other venders carried for sale, on a portable counter slung from their necks by ribbons, balls of thread, tape, thimbles, and scissors; the venders of distaffs and spindles carried their wares suspended around their waists, from their breast, everywhere, as unskillful swimmers carry bladders, and the venders of frying-pans glittered in the sun like feudal warriors.

The confused din, the ceaseless movement of the multitude, and the mingling together of human beings and animals, made the brain dizzy, and the ear was wearied by the plaintive lowing of the cows under the drivers' lash, the terrified cries of women, the brutal hilarity of drunken men who issued from the taverns with hats pushed far back on their heads, seeking an outlet for their superabundant energy by assaulting the men or pinching the girls. The latter, screaming with terror, escaped from the drunkards to fall, perhaps, on the horns of some ox or to receive a blow from the snout of some mule that bathed their foreheads and temples in its frothy saliva. But most terrifying of all was it to see infants carried high above their mothers' heads, braving, like frail skiffs, the dangers of this stormy sea.

Nieves remained for half an hour or so looking out of the window, and then, sight and hearing both weary, she withdrew. In the afternoon she watched the scene again for a while. The buying and selling was less brisk, and the better classes of the Border began to make their appearance at the fair. Agonde, who, absorbed in the desperate gambling that went on in the back shop, had kept himself invisible during the day, now went upstairs and, while he wiped the perspiration from his brow, pointed out to Nieves the notabilities of the place, as they passed by, naming to her in turn the archpriests, the parish priests, the physicians, and the gentry.

"That very thin man, riding that horse that looks as if it had been strained through a colander, with silver trimmings in his saddle and silver spurs, is SeÑorito de Limioso, a scion of the house of the Cid—God save the mark! The Pazo of Limioso is situated in the neighborhood of Cebre. As for money, they have not an ochavo; they own a few barley-fields, and a couple of grapevines past yielding, that bring them in a trifle. But do you suppose that SeÑorito de Limioso would go into an inn to dine? No, SeÑora; he carries his bread and cheese in his pocket, and he will sleep—Heaven knows where. As he is a Carlist they may let him stretch himself on the floor of DoÑa Eufrasia's back shop, with the saddle of his nag for a pillow, for on a day like this there are no mattresses to spare. And you may be sure that his servant's belt bulges out in the way it does, because he carries the nag's feed in it."

"You exaggerate, Agonde."

"Exaggerate? No, indeed. You have no idea what those gentlemen are. Here they are called Seven on a horse, because they have one horse for all seven which they ride in pairs, in turn, and when they are near the town they stop to ride in, one by one, armed with whip and spur, and the nag comes in seven different times, each time with a different rider. Why, see those ladies coming there, the one on a donkey, the other on a mule—the SeÑoritas de Loiro. They are friends of the Molendes. Look at the bundles they carry before them; they are the dresses for to-night's ball."

"But are you really in earnest?"

"In earnest? Yes, indeed, SeÑora. They have them all here, every article—the bustle, or whatever it may be called, that sticks out behind, the shoes, the petticoats, and even the rouge. And those are very refined, they come to the town to dress themselves; most of the young ladies, a few years ago, used to dress themselves in the pine wood near the echo of Santa Margarita. As they had no house in the town to stay at, and they were not going to lose the ball, at half-past ten or eleven they were among the pines, hooking their low-necked dresses, fastening on their bows and their gewgaws, and as fine as you please. All the gentry together, Nieves, if you will believe me, could not make up a dollar among them. They are people that, to avoid buying lard, or making broth, breakfast on wine and water. They hang up the loaf of wheaten bread among the rafters so that it may be out of reach and may last forever. I know them well—vanity, and nothing more."

The apothecary spoke angrily, multiplying instances, and exaggerating them in the telling, with the rage of the plebeian who eagerly seizes an opportunity to ridicule the poor aristocracy, relating anecdotes of everyone of the ladies and gentlemen—stories of poverty more or less skillfully disguised. Don Victoriano laughed, remembering some of the stories, now become proverbial in the country, while Nieves, her anxiety set at rest by her husband's laughter, began to think without terror, with a certain secret complacency, rather, of the episodes of the fireworks. She had feared to see Segundo among the crowd, but, as the night advanced and the brilliant colors of the booths faded into the surrounding darkness, and lights began to appear, and the singing of the drunkards grew hoarser, her mind became tranquil, and the danger seemed very remote, almost to have disappeared. In her inexperience she had fancied at first that the poet's arm would leave its trace, as it were, on her waist, and that the poet would seize the first opportunity to present himself before her, exacting and impassioned, betraying himself and compromising her. But the day passed by, serene and without incident, and Nieves experienced the inevitable impatience of the woman who waits in vain for the appearance of the man who occupies her thoughts. At last she remembered the ball. Segundo would certainly be there.