“No, because he would not know you had done so; and as several hours have already elapsed, and he will be on his way to join you, and we have no means of letting him know, and the train stops only for a moment at those stations, I do not think it would be best. Besides, you might both have to remain for a considerable time in some wretched railway station waiting for another train. That course is not advisable.”
“Well, then, what do you suggest?” said the young girl eagerly, and with the greatest confidence, encouraged by the “if we go back” of the traveler, which tacitly promised her assistance and support.
“To go on to Bayonne, Señora; it is the only course to pursue. Your husband will probably take the first train for that place. We shall arrive in the afternoon, and he will arrive in the evening. Since he has not telegraphed to you to return (which he could have done), it is because he is on his way to join you.”
Lucía interposed no objection. Ignorant of the route herself, she felt a singular relief in trusting to the experience of another. She turned toward the window in silence and followed with her gaze the broken line of the sierra, which stood sharply defined against the clear sky. The train began to move more slowly. They were nearing a station. “What place is this?” she asked, turning toward her companion.
“Miranda de Ebro,” he answered laconically.
“How thirsty I am,” murmured Lucía. “I would give anything for a glass of water.”
“Let us get out; you can get some water at the restaurant,” responded Artegui, whom this unexpected adventure was beginning to draw from his abstraction. And springing down before her he offered his arm to Lucía, who took it without ceremony, and, urged by thirst, hurried toward the bar, where some half-empty bottles, half-eaten oranges, jars of fruit syrups and flasks of orange-flower water, disputed with one another the possession of a zinc-covered counter and some yellow painted shelves. The water was served, and, without waiting for the sugar to dissolve, Lucía drank it quickly, in gulps, and then shook the moisture from her fingers, drying them with her handkerchief.
Artegui paid.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at her taciturn companion. “It was delicious—when one is thirsty—Thank you, Señor—What is your name?”
“Ignacio Artegui,” he answered, with a look of surprise.