“Don’t trouble the lady any more,” said the traveler, interfering very opportunely, for tears as big as filberts now began to course down Lucía’s cheeks. “Insolent!” he continued angrily. “Do you not see that some unforeseen accident has happened to this lady? Come, take yourself off or——”
“But you see, sir, we have our duties to consider, our responsibilities——”
“Say no more, but go. Take this for the lady’s fare.”
As he spoke, he put his right hand into the pocket of his overcoat and drew from it some greasy-looking papers of a greenish color, the sight of which at once restored serenity to the frowning brow of the official who, as he took the proffered bill, lowered by two or three tones the pitch of his gruff voice.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, placing it in his soiled and well-worn pocket-book. “Your word would have been sufficient. I did not recognize you at first, but I recollect your face very well now, and I remember having often seen both you and your father, Señor de Artegui——”
“Well then,” rejoined the traveler, “if you know me, you know that I am not in the habit of wasting words. Go.” And pushing the man out of the compartment, he closed the door behind him. But he opened it again quickly and calling to the official, who was running with incredible agility along the narrow ledge beside the steps, he cried to him in sonorous tones:
“Hist, hist! If you should come across a gentleman called Miranda in any of the carriages, let him know that his wife is here.”
This done he seated himself again in his corner, and lowering the window eagerly drew in the vivifying morning air. Lucía, drying her eyes, which had twice that day shed unaccustomed tears, felt at the same time extraordinary uneasiness and an inexplicable sense of contentment. The action of the traveler caused her the profound joy which generous actions are apt to awaken in souls yet unspoiled by contact with the world. She ardently desired to thank him, but she could not summon courage to do so. He, meantime, sat watching the sunrise with as much intentness as if it were the most novel and entertaining spectacle in the world. At last the young girl, conquering her timidity, with trembling lips said the most stupid thing which it was possible, under the circumstances, to say (as usually happens when one prepares a speech for any occasion beforehand):
“Señor—I cannot pay you what I owe you until Miranda comes. He has the money——”
“I do not lend money,” answered the traveler quietly, without turning around, or removing his gaze from the eastern sky, where dawn was breaking through light clouds touched with gold and crimson.