There came an evening when there were mutterings up among the hills. The lightning pranked gayly about the low-hanging clouds. Occasionally a report among the far-distant peaks broke the phenomenal stillness.
Felisa lounged within the hammock which swung across the veranda corner. It was very dark, the only lights being those gratuitous ones displayed by the cucullas as they flew or walked about by twos or threes. At each succeeding flash of lightning Felisa showed increased nervousness. Her hand sought Beltran's, and he took it in his and held it close.
"See, Felisa! I will get the guitar, and we will sing. We have not sung of late."
Felisa clasped her hands across her eyes and burst into tears. Beltran was kneeling at her feet in an instant.
"What is it, my Heart? What is it? Do not sob so."
"I am afraid, afraid!" sobbed Felisa. "All is so mysterious. There are queer noises in the ground! Hear those hissing, rushing sounds! Cousin! cousin! What is it?"
"You are nervous, little one. We often have such storms in the mountains. It may not come this way at all. See, here is the guitar."
He patted the small fingers lying within his own, then stretched out his hand for the guitar, hanging near. He swept his fingers across the strings.
"What shall we sing?" he asked, with a smile in his voice. Volatile as a child, believing that which she wished to believe, Felisa sat upright at the first strain of music. She laughed, though the drops still stood upon her cheeks, and hummed the first line of "La Verbena de la Paloma."
"I will be Susana," she said, "and you shall be Julian. Come now, begin! 'Y á los toros de carabanchel,'" she hummed.