Nieves drew a long breath. She felt dazed. She shook her wrists, hurt by the pressure of Segundo's fingers, and arranged her hair, wet with the night dew, and disordered by the contact of the branches. What had she said after all? Anything, no matter what, to escape from so compromising a situation. She was to blame for having withdrawn from the others and hidden herself in so retired a spot. And with that desire to give publicity to unimportant actions which seizes people when they have something to conceal she called out:

"Teresa! Elvira! Carmen! Carmen!"

"Nieves! where are you, Nieves?" came in answer from various quarters.

"Here, beside the big lemon tree. Wait for me, I am coming!"

When they entered the house, Nieves, who had to some extent recovered her composure, began to reflect on what had passed and could not but wonder at herself. To say yes to Segundo. She had uttered the word partly under compulsion, but she had uttered it. How daring the poet had been. It seemed impossible that the son of the lawyer of Vilamorta should be so determined. She was a lady of distinction, highly respected, her husband had just been Minister. And GarcÍa's family, what were they—nobodies; the father wore collars frayed at the edges that were a sight to see; they kept no servant; the sisters ran about barefooted half the time. Even Segundo himself—he had an unmistakable provincial air and a strong Galician accent. He could not indeed be called ugly; there was something remarkable in his face and in his manner. He spoke with so much passion! As if he commanded instead of entreating! What a masterful air he had! And there was something flattering to one's vanity in having a suitor of this kind, so ardent and so daring. Who had ever fallen in love with Nieves before? There were three or four who had made gallant speeches to her—one who had watched her through his opera-glass. Everyone in Madrid treated her with that indifference and consideration which respectable ladies inspire.

For the rest, this persistency of Segundo's was to a certain extent compromising. Would people notice it? Would her husband notice it? Bah! Her husband thought only of his ailments, of the elections. He scarcely ever spoke to her of anything else. But what if he should notice it? How horrible, good Heavens! And the girls who had been playing hide and seek, might they not suspect something? Elvira seemed more languishing and sighed more frequently than usual. Elvira admired Segundo. He—no, he did not pay the slightest attention to her. And Segundo's verses sounded well, they were beautiful; they were worthy of a place in La Ilustracion. In short, as they would be obliged to return to Madrid before the elections, there was hardly any real danger. She would always preserve a pleasant recollection of the summer. The thing was to avoid—to avoid——

Nieves did not venture to tell herself what it was necessary to avoid, nor had she settled this point when she entered the parlor, where the game of tresillo was already going on. SeÑora de Comba seated herself at the piano and played several quick airs—polkas and rigadoons, for the girls to dance. When she stopped they cried out for another air.

"Nieves, the muÑeira!"

"The riveirana, please!"

"Do you know the whole of it, Nieves?"

"The whole of it—why, did I not hear it in the feasts?"

"Let us have it then, come."

"Who will dance it?"

"Who knows how to dance it?"

Several voices answered immediately:

"Teresa Molende; ah! it is a pleasure to see her dance it."

"And who will be her partner?"

"RamonciÑe Limioso here, he dances it to perfection."

Teresa laughed in the deep, sonorous tones of a man, declaring solemnly that she had forgotten the muÑeira—that she never knew it well. From the tresillo table came a protest—from the master of the house, Mendez: Teresina danced it to perfection. Let her not try to excuse herself; no excuse would avail her; there was not in all the Border a girl who danced the riveirana with more grace; it was true indeed that the taste and the skill for these old customs of the country were fast disappearing.

Teresa yielded, not without once more affirming her incompetence. And after fastening up her skirt with pins, so that it might not impede her movements she stopped laughing and assumed a modest and ingenuous air, veiling her large lustrous eyes under her thick lashes, dropping her head on her breast, letting her arms fall by her sides, swaying them slightly, rubbing the balls of the thumbs and the forefingers together, and thus, moving with very short steps, her feet close together, keeping time to the music, she made the tour of the room, with perfect decorum, her eyes fixed on the floor, stopping finally at the head of the room. While this was taking place, SeÑorito de Limioso took off his short jacket, remaining in his shirt-sleeves, put on his hat, and asked for an indispensable article.

"Victorina, the castanets."

The child ran and brought two pairs of castanets. The SeÑorito secured the cord between his fingers and after a haughty flourish, began his rÔle. Teresita's partner was as lean and shriveled as Don Quixote himself, and, like the Manchego hidalgo, it was undeniable that he had a distinguished and stately air, scrupulously as he imitated the awkward movements of a rustic. He took his place before Teresa and danced a quick measure, courteously but urgently wooing her to listen to his suit. At times he touched the floor with the sole of his foot, at others with his heel or toe only, almost twisting his ankles out of joint with the rapidity of his movements, while he played the castanets energetically, the castanets in Teresa's hands responding with a faint and timid tinkle. Pushing his hat back on his head the gallant looked boldly at his partner, approached his face to hers; pursued her, urged his suit in a thousand different ways, Teresa never altering her humble and submissive attitude nor he his conquering air, his gymnastics, and his resolute movements of attack.

It was primitive love, the wooing of the heroic ages, represented in this expressive Cantabrian dance, warlike and rude; the woman dominated by the strength of the man and, better than enamored, afraid; all which was more piquant in view of the Amazon-like type of Teresa and the habitual shyness and circumspection of the SeÑorito. There was an instant, however, in which the gallant peeped through the barbarous conqueror, and in the midst of a most complicated and rapid measure he bent his knee before the beauty, describing the figure known as punto del sacramento. It was only for a moment however; springing to his feet he gave his partner a tender push and they stood back to back, touching each other, caressing each other, and amorously rubbing shoulder against shoulder and spine against spine. In two minutes they suddenly drew apart and with a few complicated movements of the ankles and a few rapid turns, during which Teresa's skirts whirled around her, the riveirana came to an end and a storm of applause burst from the spectators.

While the SeÑorito wiped the perspiration from his brow and Teresa unpinned her skirt, Nieves, who had risen from the piano, looked around and noticed Segundo's absence. Elvira made the same observation but aloud. Agonde gave them the clew to the mystery.

"No doubt he is at this moment in the pine grove or on the river-bank. There is scarcely a night in which he does not make eccentric expeditions of the kind; in Vilamorta he does the same thing."

"And how is the door to be closed if he does not come? That boy is crazy," declared Primo Genday. "We are not all going to do without our sleep, we who have to get up early to our work, for that featherhead. Hey, do you understand me? I will shut up the house and let him manage in the best way he can. Ave Maria!"

Mendez and Don Victoriano protested in the name of courtesy and hospitality, and until midnight the door of Las Vides remained open, awaiting Segundo's return. As he had not come by that time, however, Genday went himself to bar the door muttering between his teeth:

"Ave Mar— Let him sleep out of doors if he has a fancy for doing so."

Segundo, in fact, was at this time on his way to the pine grove. He was in a state of intense excitement, and he felt that it would be impossible for him in his present mood to meet anyone or to take part in any conversation. Nieves, so reserved, so beautiful, had said yes to him. The dreams of an ideal love which had tormented his spirit were not, then, destined never to be realized, nor would fame be unattainable when love was already within his ardent and eager grasp. With these thoughts passing through his mind he ascended the steep path and walked enraptured through the pine grove. At times he would lean against the dark trunk of some pine, his brow bared to the breeze, drinking in the cool night air, and listening, as in a dream, to the mysterious voices of the trees and the murmur of the river that ran below. Ah, what moments of happiness, what supreme joys, were promised him by this love, which flattered his pride, excited his imagination and satisfied his egotism, the delicate egotism of a poet, avid of love, of enjoyments which the imagination idealizes and the muse may sing without degradation! All that he had pictured in his verses was to be realized in his life; and his song would ring forth more clearly and inspiration would flow more freely, and he would write, in blood, verses that would cause his readers' hearts to thrill with emotion.

In defiance of duty and reason Nieves loved him—she had told him so. The poet smiled scornfully when he thought of Don Victoriano, with the profound contempt of the idealist for the practical man inept in spiritual things. Then he looked around him. The pine grove had a gloomy air at this hour. And it was cold. Besides it must be late. They would be wondering at his absence in Las Vides. Had Nieves retired? With these thoughts passing through his mind he descended the rugged path and reached the door ten minutes after the careful hand of Genday had secured the bolt. The contretemps did not alarm Segundo; he would have to scale some wall; and the romance of the incident almost pleased him. How should he effect an entrance?

Undoubtedly the easiest way would be by the garden, into which he could lower himself from the brow of the hill—a question of a few scratches, but he would be in his own room in ten minutes' time, without encountering the dogs that were keeping watch in the yard, or any member of the household, as that side of the house, the side where the dining-room was situated, was uninhabited. And upon this course he decided. He turned back and ascended the top of the hill, not without some difficulty. From thence he could command a view of the gallery and a good part of the garden. He studied the nature of the declivity, so as to avoid falling on the wall and perhaps breaking his leg. The hill was bare and without vegetation and the figure of the Swan stood out boldly against the background of the sky.

When Segundo fixed his eyes on the gallery for the purpose of deciding on the safest place for a descent, he saw something that troubled his senses with a sweet intoxication, something that gave him one of those delightful surprises which make the blood rush to the heart to send it coursing back joyful and ardent through the veins. In the semi-obscurity of the gallery, standing among the flower-pots, his keen gaze descried, without the possibility of a doubt as to the reality of the vision, a white figure, the silhouette of a woman, whose attitude seemed to indicate that she too had seen him, had observed him, that she was waiting for him.

Fancy swiftly sketched out and filled in the details of the scene—a colloquy, a divine colloquy of love with Nieves, among the carnations and the vines, alone, without any other witnesses than the moon, already setting, and the flowers, envious of so much happiness. And with a swift movement he rolled down the steep declivity, landing on the hard wall. The fruit trees hid the path from him, and two or three times he lost his way; at last he found himself at the foot of the staircase leading to the gallery, and he raised his eyes to satisfy himself as to the reality of the lovely apparition. A woman dressed in white was indeed waiting there, leaning over the wooden balustrade of the balcony; but the distance did not now admit of any optical illusion; it was Elvira Molende, in a percale wrapper, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, as if she were an actress rehearsing the rÔle of Sonnambula. How eagerly the poor girl was leaning over the balustrade! The poet would swear that she even called his name softly, with a tender lisp.

And he passed on. He made the tour of the garden, entered the courtyard by the inner door, which was not closed at night, and knocked loudly at the door of the kitchen. The servant opened it for him, cursing to himself the young gentlemen who stayed up late at night because they were not obliged to rise early in the morning to open the cellar for the grape-tramplers.