“Right next to yours. May the Lord give the unlucky man patience to stand you so near! Candidiña, Candidiña, bring a light, and show these gentlemen their way.”
The tall maid before-mentioned appeared, candle in hand. She had a fair light complexion, innocent, and even slightly stupid features,—which somewhat resembled a wooden cherub’s; but her little eyes were speaking and mischievous, and she lowered them so that they should not betray her. She went on ahead, and we followed her up a steep staircase. She led us to our rooms up in the tower, which were separated from each other by a narrow hall. These rooms had not been made over, when Señor Aldao had the tower reconstructed, and were very old. Probably they were ordinarily used for storing chestnuts or squashes. The furniture consisted only of a bed, two chairs, a small table, and a wash-stand.
The girl left the candle on the table and said:
“That’s Serafín’s room, and this is yours. They are plenty large enough.”
“Even enough for you, too,” said the clerical apprentice, in a most impudent manner.
The girl winked and laughed aloud, while she waved her hand threateningly at Serafín; but immediately afterward she turned toward me and, assuming a most modest demeanor, asked, in a humble tone, whether I had any orders to give her. I said I should like to have some writing materials, and she replied that she would run and get them at once. As she carried off the candle, I was left almost in the dark, and could only see by the reflection of the moon. I went up to the window, and beheld, close by, a vast, dark mass stretching itself out; a sort of vegetable lake, which resembled a single tree—although I doubted it could be, on account of its size. Afar off, the river gleamed like a gray satin robe, dotted with silver spangles; the crescent moon was multiplied in its bosom, and the imperceptible sound of the lapping of the waves against the beach mingled with the soft night breeze, which shook the branches near by.
A cool, moist breeze caressed my cheeks. Candidiña interrupted my meditation, stealing in without knocking at the door. She brought in one hand an inkstand, almost running over; and in the other, besides the candle, paper, envelopes, a stub of a pen, and a cornucopia filled with sand.
“Aunt Andrea says that you must excuse us for having everything so topsy-turvy. She says that to-morrow, without fail, she will give you the sand-box. She says that in the country one must overlook a great deal.”
I began to gather things together preparatory to writing to Luis Portal, but the girl, instead of going off, remained standing there, gazing at me as if my person and my actions were matters of great curiosity. When she peeped over my shoulders to see how I arranged my paper, she said, with almost childish surprise, and with the sweet accent peculiar to the people who live on the seashore of Galicia:
“Oh, are you going to write to-night, when it is so late?”