As the time occupied in the gathering of the grapes and the elaboration of the wine in the spacious cellar of Mendez was so prolonged, and as in that part of the country everyone has his own crop, however small, to gather in, part of the guests went away, desirous of attending to their own vineyards. SeÑorito de Limioso needed to see for himself how, between oÏdium, the blackbirds, the neighbors, and the wasps, not a single bunch of grapes had been left him; the SeÑoritas de Molende had to hang up with their own hands the grapes of their famous Tostado, renowned throughout the country; and for similar reasons Saturnino Agonde, the arch-priest, and the curate of Naya took their leave one by one, the court of Las Vides being reduced to Carmen Agonde, maid of honor, Clodio Genday, Aulic councilor, Tropiezo, court physician, and Segundo, who might well be the page or the troubadour charged to divert the chÂtelaine with his ditties.

Segundo was consumed with a feverish impatience hitherto unknown to him. Since the day of the interview in the lemon tree Nieves had shunned every occasion of being alone with him; and the feverish dream that haunted his sleep, the intolerable anguish which consumed him, was that he had advanced no further than the fugitive yes, which he sometimes even doubted he had heard. He could not endure this slow torture, this ceaseless martyrdom; he would have been less unhappy if instead of encouraging him Nieves had requited his love with open scorn. It was not the brutal desire for positive victories which thus tormented him; all he wished was to convince himself that he was really loved, and that under that steely corset a tender heart throbbed. And so mad was his passion that when he found it impossible to approach Nieves, he was seized by an almost irresistible impulse to cry out, "Nieves, tell me again that you love me!" Always, always obstacles between the two; the child was always at her mother's side. Of what avail was it to be rid of Elvira Molende who, since the memorable night on which she had kept guard in the gallery, had looked at the poet with an expression that was half satirical, half mournful? The departure of the poetess removed an obstacle, indeed, but it did not put an end to his difficulties.

Segundo suffered in his vanity, wounded by the systematic reserve of Nieves, as well as in his love, his ardent longing for the impossible. It was already October; the ex-Minister spoke of taking his departure immediately, and although Segundo counted on establishing himself in Madrid later on through his influence, and meeting Nieves again, an infallible instinct told him that between Nieves and himself there existed no other bond of union than their temporary sojourn in Las Vides, the poetic influences of the season, the accident of living under the same roof, and that if this dream did not take shape before their separation it would be as ephemeral as the vine leaves that were now falling around them, withered and sapless.

Autumn was parting with its glories; the wrinkled and knotted vine stalks, the dry and shrunken vine branches, lay bare to view, and the wind moaned sadly, stripping their leaves from the boughs of the fruit trees. One day Victorina asked Segundo:

"When are we going to the pine grove to hear it sing?"

"Whenever you like, child. This afternoon if your mother wishes it."

The child conveyed the proposition to Nieves. For some time past Victorina had been more than usually demonstrative toward her mother, leaning her head upon Nieves' breast, hiding her cheek in her neck, passing her hands over her hair and her shoulders while she would repeat softly, in a voice that seemed to ask for a caress:

"Mamma! mamma!"

But the eyes of the miniature woman, half-veiled by their long lashes, were fixed with loving, longing glance, not on her mother, but on the poet, whose words the child drank in eagerly, turning very red if he chanced to make some jesting remark to her or gave any other indication of being aware of her presence.

Nieves objected a little at first, not wishing to appear credulous or superstitious.

"But what has put such an idea into your head?"

"Mamma, when Segundo says that the pines sing, they sing, mamma, there is not a doubt of it."

"But you don't know," said Nieves, bestowing on the poet a smile in which there was more sugar than salt—"that Segundo writes poetry, and that people who write poetry are permitted to—to invent—a little?"

"No, SeÑora," cried Segundo. "Do not teach your child what is not true. Do not deceive her. In society it often happens that we utter with the lips sentiments that are far from the heart, but in poetry we lay bare the feelings of the inmost soul, feelings which in the world we are obliged to hide in our own breasts, through respect—or through prudence. Believe me."

"Say, mamma, are we going there to-day?"

"Where?"

"To the pine grove."

"If you are very anxious to go. What an obstinate child! But indeed I too am curious to hear this orchestra."

Only Nieves, Victorina, Carmen, Segundo, and Tropiezo took part in the expedition. The elders remained behind smoking and looking on at the important operation of covering and closing some of the vats which contained the must, now fermented. As Mendez saw the party about to start, he called out in a tone of paternal warning:

"Take care with the descent. The pine needles in this hot weather are as slippery as if they had been rubbed with soap. The ladies must be helped down. You, Victorina, don't be crazy; don't go rushing about there."

The famous pine grove was distant some quarter of a league, but they spent fully three-quarters of an hour in making the ascent, along a path as steep, narrow, and rugged as the ascent to heaven is said to be, and which long before reaching the wood was carpeted with the polished, smooth, dry pine needles, which, if they rendered the descent more easy than was agreeable, compensated for it by making the ascent extremely difficult, causing the foot to slip, and fatiguing the ankles and the knees. Nieves stopped from time to time to take breath, and was at last fain to avail herself of the support of the plump arm of Carmen Agonde.

"Caramba, this is like practicing gymnastics! Whoever escapes being killed when we are going back will be very lucky."

"Lean well on me, lean well on me," said the sturdy country girl. "Many a limb has been broken here already, no doubt. This ascent is terrible!"

They reached the summit at last. The prospect was beautiful, with that species of beauty that borders on sublimity. The pine wood seemed to hang over an abyss. Between the trunks of the trees could be caught glimpses of the mountains, of an ashen blue blending into violet in the distance; on the other side of the pine wood, that which overlooked the river, the ground fell abruptly in a steep, almost perpendicular descent, while far below flowed the Avieiro, not winding peacefully along, but noisy and foaming, roused into rage by the barrier opposed to its progress by some sharp black rocks and separating into numerous currents that curled around the bowlders like angry green snakes covered with silver scales. To the roaring and sobbing of the river the pine wood kept accompaniment with its perpetual plaint intoned by the summits of the trees, which swayed and vibrated to the kisses of the breeze, dolorous kisses that drew from them an incessant moan.

The excursionists, impressed by the tragic aspect of the scene, remained mute. Only the child broke the silence, speaking in tones as hushed as if she were in a church.

"Well, it is true, mamma! The pines sing. Do you hear them? It sounds like the chorus of bishops in 'L'Africaine.' They even seem to speak—listen—in bass voices—like that passage in the 'Huguenots——'"

Nieves agreed that the murmur of the pines was in truth musical and solemn. Segundo, leaning against a tree, looked down at the river foaming below; Victorina approached him, but he stopped her and made her go back.

"No, my child," he said; "don't come near; it is a little dangerous; if you should lose your footing and roll down that declivity——Go back, go back."

As nothing further occurred to them to say about the pines, the excursionists began to think of returning home; Nieves was a little uneasy about the descent, and she wished to undertake it before the sun should set.

"Now, indeed, we shall break some of our bones, Don Fermin," she said to the doctor. "Now, indeed, you may begin to get your bandages and splints ready."

"There is another road," said Segundo, emerging from his abstraction. "And one which is much less toilsome and much more level than this."

"Yes, talk to us now about the other road," cried Tropiezo, true to his habit of voting with the opposition. "It is even worse than the one by which we came."

"How should it be worse, man? It is a little longer, but as it is not so steep it is the best in the end. It skirts the pine wood."

"Do you want to tell me which is the best road—me who know the whole country as well as I know my own house? You cannot go by that road; I know what I am saying."

"And I say that you can, and I will prove it to you. For once in your life don't be stubborn. I came by it not many days ago. Do you remember, Nieves, the night we played hide-and-seek in the garden, the night they barred me out and I got over the wall?"

Had it not been for the thick shade cast by the pine trees and the fading daylight, it would have been seen that Nieves blushed.

"Let us take whichever road is easiest and most level," she said, evading an answer. "I am very awkward about walking over rough roads."

Segundo offered his arm, saying jestingly:

"That blessed Tropiezo knows as much about roads as he does about the art of healing. Come, and you shall see that we will be the gainers by it."

Tropiezo, on his side, was saying to Carmen Agonde, shaking his head obstinately:

"Well, we will please ourselves and go by the cut, and arrive before they do, safe and sound, with the help of God."

Victorina, according to her custom, was going to her mother's side, when the doctor called out to her:

"Here, take hold of the end of my stick or you will slip. Your mamma will have enough to do to keep herself from falling. And God save us from a trip," he added, laughing loudly at his jest.

The voices and footsteps receded in the distance, and Segundo and Nieves continued on their way in silence. The precipitous character of the path along which they walked inspired Nieves with something like fear. It was a little path cut on the slope of the pine wood, on the very edge of the precipice, almost overhanging the river. Although Segundo gave Nieves the least dangerous side, that next the wood, leaving himself scarcely a foothold, so that he was obliged to place one foot horizontally before the other, in walking, this did not set her fears at rest or make the adventure seem any the less dangerous to her. Her terror was increased a hundredfold when she saw that they were alone.

"Are they not coming?" she asked anxiously.

"We will overtake them in less than ten minutes. They are going by the other road," answered Segundo, without adding a single word of endearment, or even pressing the arm which trembled with terror within his.

"Let us go on, then," said Nieves, in tones of urgent entreaty. "I am anxious to be home."

"Why?" asked the poet, suddenly standing still.

"I am tired—out of breath——"

"Well, you shall rest and take a drink of water if you desire it."

And with rash hardihood Segundo, without waiting for an answer, drew Nieves down the slope and, skirting the rock, stopped on a narrow ledge which projected over the river. By the fading sunset light they discried a crystal thread of water trickling down the black front of the rock.

"Drink, if you wish—in the palm of your hand, for we have no glass," said Segundo.

Nieves mechanically released Segundo's arm, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, and took a step toward the stream; but the ground at the base of the rock, kept moist by the dripping of the water, was overgrown with humid vegetation as slippery as sea-weed, and as she set her foot upon it she slipped and lost her balance. In her vertigo, she saw the river roaring menacingly below, the sharp rocks waiting to receive her and mangle her flesh, and she already felt the chill air of the abyss. A hand clutched her by her gown, by her flesh, perhaps; held her up and drew her back to safety. She dropped her head on Segundo's shoulder and the latter, for the first time, felt Nieves' heart beat under his hand. And how quickly it beat! It beat with fear. The poet bent over her, and on her very lips breathed this question:

"Do you love me? tell me, do you love me?"

The answer was inaudible, for even if the words had been formed in her throat her sealed lips were unable to articulate them. During this short space of time, which was for them an eternity, there flashed across Segundo's brain a thought potent and destructive as the electric spark. The poet stood fronting the precipice, Nieves with her back toward it, kept from falling over its edge only by the arm of her savior. A movement forward, a stronger pressure of his lips to hers, would be sufficient to make them both lose their balance and precipitate them into the abyss. It would be a beautiful ending—worthy of the ambitious soul of a poet. Thinking of it Segundo found it alluring and desirable, and yet the instinct of self-preservation, an animal impulse, but one more powerful than the romantic idea, placed between the thought and the action an insuperable barrier. He pleased himself, in imagination, with the picture of the two bodies clasped in each other's arms, borne along by the current of the river. He even saw in fancy the scene of the discovery of the corpses, the exclamations; the profound impression that such an event would cause in the district; and something, some poetic feeling that stirred and thrilled in his youthful soul, urged him to take the leap; but at the same time a cold fear congealed his blood, obliging him to proceed slowly, not toward the abyss, but in an opposite direction, toward the path.

All this, short enough in the telling, was instantaneous in the thinking. Segundo felt a cold chill strike through him, putting to flight thoughts of love as well as of death. It was the chill communicated to him by the lips of Nieves, who had fainted in his arms.

He dipped his handkerchief in the spring and applied it to her temples and wrists. She half opened her eyes. They could hear Tropiezo talking, Carmen laughing; they were coming doubtless in search of them, to triumph over them. Nieves, when she came back to consciousness and found herself still alone, did not make the slightest effort to free herself from the poet's embrace.

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