Any one who had observed these two from a distance,—a young and handsome man and a blooming young girl,—conversing alone in the shady meadow, would have taken them, to a certainty, for a pair of lovers, and would never have imagined that they were speaking of suffering and death, but of love, which is life itself. Artegui, standing on the bank, could see his image reflected in the blue eyes which Lucía lifted toward him; eyes, that notwithstanding the darkness of the sky, seemed to sparkle with light.
“By dying!” she echoed, as the tree echoes back the sound of the blow that wounds it.
“By dying. Suffering ends only with death. Only death can vanquish the creative force that delights in creating so that it may afterward torture its unhappy creation.”
“I do not understand you,” murmured Lucía, “but I am afraid.” And her form trembled like the osier branches.
Artegui was silent, but a deep and powerful voice resounding through the heavens suddenly mingled with the strange dialogue. It was the thunder which pealed in the distance, solemn and awe-inspiring. Lucía uttered a low cry of terror and fell prone upon the grass. The clouds broke and large drops of rain fell with a sound like that of molten lead upon the silky leaves of the osiers. Artegui hurried down the bank, and taking Lucía in his arms, with nervous force, began to run, without looking to the right or to the left, leaping ditches, crossing newly plowed fields, pressing under foot celery plants and cabbages, until, beaten by the rain and pursued by the thunder, he reached the high road. The driver was energetically uttering maledictions on the storm when Artegui placed Lucía, almost insensible, on the seat and pulled up the oilcloth cover hastily to protect her as far as was possible from the rain. The ponies, terrified by the tempest, without waiting for the touch of the whip, with pricked-up ears and distended nostrils, set off toward Bayonne.
CHAPTER VII.
Lucía had just finished drying her wet garments at the fire that Artegui had lighted for her. Her hair, which the rain had flattened against her forehead, was beginning to curl slightly at the temples; her clothing was still steaming, but the beneficent warmth pervading her frame had in some degree brought back her natural buoyancy of spirits. Only the feathers of her hat, drooping sadly, notwithstanding their owner’s efforts to restore to them their graceful curl by holding them to the fire, bore witness to the ravages of the storm.
Artegui leaned back in an easy-chair, listless as usual, plunged in idle revery. He was resting, doubtless, from the fatigue caused by lighting the logs that burned so cheerfully in the fireplace, and ordering and pouring out the tea, to which he had added a few drops of rum. Silent and motionless now, his eyes rested alternately on Lucía and on the fire, which formed a shifting red background to her head. While Lucía had been incommoded by the weight of her wet garments and the pressure of her damp shoes, she too had remained silent and constrained, nervously fancying she still heard the pealings of the thunder and felt the sting of the rain drops beating against her face, like needles.
Little by little the genial influence of the heat relaxed her stiffened limbs and loosened her paralyzed tongue. She stretched her feet and hands toward the blaze, spread out her skirts, to dry them equally, and finally sat down on the floor, Turkish-fashion, the better to enjoy the warmth of the fire, which she contemplated with fixed and absorbed gaze, listening to the crackling of the logs as she watched them gradually change from red to black.
“Don Ignacio,” she said suddenly.