Towards nightfall Juan de Arèvalo mounted the central arch to see that all was ready for the opening ceremony. He went humming to himself as he inspected all the works and preparations. But, suddenly, an expression of misgiving overspread his countenance. A thought had struck him—a thought that froze his blood. He descended from the bridge and hastened home.
At the door his wife received him with a joyous smile and a merry word of congratulation. But on beholding his troubled face she turned deadly pale.
"Good heavens!" she cried, affrighted, "are you ill, dear Juan?"
"ARE YOU ILL, DEAR JUAN?"
"No, dear wife," he replied, striving to master his emotion.
"Do not deceive me! your face tells me that something ails you?"
"Oh! the evening is cold and the work has been excessive."
"Come in and sit down at the hearth and I will get the supper ready, and when you have had something to eat and are rested you will be at ease again!"
"At ease!" murmured Juan to himself, in agony of spirit, whilst his wife busied herself in the preparation of the supper, placing the table close to the hearth, upon which she threw a faggot.