One day he took them to the stone bridge that crossed the Avieiro, under whose arches the black water, cold and motionless, seems to be dreaming a sinister dream. And he told them how in this spot, where, owing to the water being deeper there and less exposed to the sun's rays, the largest trout gathered, a corpse had been found floating last month near the arch. He took them to hear the echo also, and all the girls were wild with delight, talking all together, without waiting for the wall to repeat their cries and shouts of laughter. On another afternoon he showed them a curious lake regarding which innumerable fables were told in the country—that it had no bottom, that it reached to the center of the earth, that submerged cities could be seen under its surface, that strange woods floated and unknown flowers grew in its waters. The so-called lake was in reality a large excavation, probably a Roman mine that had been flooded with water, which, imprisoned within the chain of hillocks of argillaceous tophus heaped up around it by the miners' shovels, presented a sepulchral and fantastic aspect, the weird effect of the scene being heightened by the somber character of the marsh vegetation which covered the surface of the immense pool. When it began to grow dark the children declared that this lugubrious scene made them horribly afraid; the girls confessed to the same feeling, and started for the highroad running at the top of their speed, leaving Segundo and Nieves behind. This was the first time they had found themselves alone together, for the poet avoided such occasions. Nieves looked around uneasily and then, meeting Segundo's eyes fixed, ardent and questioning upon hers, lowered her gaze. Then the gloom of the landscape and the solemnity of the hour gave her a contraction of the heart, and without knowing what she was doing she began to run as the girls had done. She heard Segundo's footsteps behind her, and when she at last stopped, at a little distance from the highroad, she saw him smile and could not help smiling herself at her own folly.
"Heavens! What a silly fright!" she cried, "I have made myself ridiculous. I am as bad as the children! But that blessed pool is enough to make one afraid. Tell me, how is it that they have not taken views of it? It is very curious and picturesque."
They returned by the highroad; it was now quite dark and Nieves, as if wishing to efface the impression made by her childish terror, showed herself gay and friendly with Segundo; two or three times her eyes encountered his and, doubtless through absent-mindedness, she did not turn them aside. They spoke of the walk of the following day; it must be along the banks of the river, which was more cheerful than the pond; the scenery there was beautiful, not gloomy like that of the pool.
In effect the road they followed on the next day was beautiful, although it was obstructed by the osier plantations and canebrakes and the intricate growth of the birches and the young poplars, which at times impeded their progress. Every now and then Segundo had to give his hand to Nieves and put aside the flexible young branches that struck against her face. Notwithstanding all his care, he was unable to save her from wetting her feet and leaving some fragments of the lace of her hat among the branches of a poplar. They stopped at a spot where the river, dividing, formed a sort of islet covered with cats-tails and gladioli. A rivulet running down the mountain-side mingled its waters silently and meekly with the waters of Avieiro. At the river's edge grew plants with dentated leaves and a variety of ferns and graceful aquatic plants. Segundo knelt down on the wet ground and began to gather some flowers.
"Take them, Nieves," he said.
She approached and, kneeling on one knee, he handed her a bunch of flowers of a pale turquoise blue, with slender stems, flowers of which she had hitherto seen only imitations, as adornments for hats, and that she had fancied had only a mythical existence; flowers of romance, that she had thought grew only on the banks of the Rhine, which is the home of everything romantic; flowers that have so beautiful a name—Forget-me-not.
XII.
Nieves was what is called an exemplary wife, without a dark page in her history, without a thought of disloyalty to her husband, a coquette only in her dress and in the adornment of her person, and even in these practicing no alluring arts, content to obey slavishly the dictates of fashion.