Don Nazario—for that was his name—opened his eyes in sudden terror, drained the cup that was offered him, and immediately fell into another doze.
It was really time for them all to do the same. So Miguel drew the shade of the lamp, and so "that the light might not trouble their eyes," he also doubled around it a folded newspaper. Thus the car was made dark; only the pale starlight gleamed in through the windows.
It was a clear, cold January night, such as are peculiar to the plains of Castille. Each passenger got into the most comfortable position possible, snuggling down into the corners. Rivera said to his wife:—
"Lean your head on my shoulder. I cannot sleep in the train."
The girl did as she was bidden, in spite of herself; she was afraid of incommoding him.
All was quiet. Miguel managed to get hold of one of her hands, and gently caressed it. After a while, leaning his head over and touching his lips to his wife's brow, he whispered very softly:—
"Maximina, I adore you," and then he repeated the words with even more emotion, "Te adóro, te adóro!"
The girl did not reply; but feigned to be asleep. Miguel asked with persuasive voice:—
"Do you love me? Do you?"
The same immobility.