Palandrez, in fear of what his own particular Señor would say of his treatment of the Señorita Felisa's father, returned hurriedly to his fanning, and Don Noé, pretending to sleep, and weary with resting, kept one eye open, so to speak, to catch him again at his muchachado.
Agueda descended the hill. When she came to the brook, she saw an old log across which some one must have lately travelled, for it was splashed with wet, and there were footmarks in the clay on the shore. She crossed, and walked quickly along the further plain, and soon heard the distant sound of voices, Felisa's high treble mingled with Don Beltran's deeper, pleasant tones. The beauty of his voice had never been so marked as now, when the thin soprano of Felisa set it off by contrast.
Following the sound of the voices, Agueda again ascended a slight rise, and before long saw in the distance the light frills of Felisa's gown showing through the trees. She knew the pastime well enough, the pastime which caused Felisa to sit upon a level with Agueda's head, and to wave up and down as if in a swing or high-poised American chair. She knew well, before she came near them, that Beltran had given Felisa the pleasure that had often been hers; that he had bent an elastic young tree over to the ground; that among its branches he had made a safe seat for Felisa, and that he was letting it spring upward, and again pressing it back to earth with regular motion, so that Felisa might ride the tree in semblance of Castaño's back; only Beltran was closer to her than he could be were they on horseback, and Felisa's nervous little screams and cries gave him reason to hold her securely and to reassure her in that ever kind and musical voice. When Felisa saw Agueda coming along the path bordered with young palms, she said, "Here comes that girl of yours, cousin, that Agueda! What can she want?"
Beltran turned with some surprise. Agueda had never dogged his footsteps before. She had left him to work his own will, independent of her claims—claims which had no foundation, in fact. All at once he remembered those claims imagined, and he wondered if at last she had come to denounce him before Felisa.
As Agueda came onward, hurrying toward them, Beltran ceased his motion of the tree, and leaned against its trunk, touching Felisa familiarly as he did so. It was as if he arrayed himself with her against Agueda. The two seemed one in spirit.
Beltran's voice, as he questioned Agueda, showed some irritation, but its musical note, a physical thing, which he could not control if he would, was still there.
"Why have you come here? What do you want with me?" He did not use her name.
Agueda stopped and leaned against a tree. She put her hand within the bosom of her dress, brought forth the letter in its double paper, tied round with a little green cord, and held it out to Beltran. She did not speak.
"Very well, bring it to me," he said. He could not let go his hold on the tree, for fear of harm coming to Felisa, and he saw no reason why Agueda, having come thus far, should not cover the few steps that remained between himself and her. She pushed herself away from the tree with her hand, as if she needed such impetus, and walking unevenly, she came near to Beltran and laid the letter in his hand. "The messenger said that it was important. It was Andres who brought it," said Agueda.
"Ah! from Silencio," said Beltran, awkwardly breaking the seal, because of the necessity of holding the tree in place.