After breakfast I spread my poncho on the dry grass under a tree to sleep the siesta. My slumbers lasted a long time, and on waking I was surprised to find my host and hostess seated on the grass near me, he busy ornamenting his surcingle, she with the maté-cup in her hand and a kettle of hot water beside her. She was drying her eyes, I fancied, when I opened mine.
“Awake at last!” cried Don Juan pleasantly. “Come and drink maté. Wife just been crying, you see.”
She made a sign for him to hold his peace.
“Why not speak of it, Candelaria?” he said. “Where is the harm? You see, my wife thinks you have been in the wars—a Santa Coloma man running away to save his throat.”
“How does she make that out?” I asked in some confusion and very much surprised.
“How! Don’t you know women? You said nothing about where you had been—prudence. That was one thing. Looked confused when we talked of the revolution—not a word to say about it. More evidence. Your poncho, lying there, shows two big cuts in it. ‘Torn by thorns,’ said I. ‘Sword-cuts,’ said she. We were arguing about it when you woke.”
“She guessed rightly,” I said, “and I am ashamed of myself for not telling you before. But why should your wife cry?”
“Woman like—woman like,” he answered, waving his hand. “Always ready to cry over the beaten one—that is the only politics they know.”
“Did I not say that woman is an angel from heaven,” I returned; then, taking her hand, I kissed it. “This is the first time I have kissed a married woman’s hand, but the husband of such a wife will know better than to be jealous.”
“Jealous—ha, ha!” he laughed. “It would have made me prouder if you had kissed her cheek.”
“Juan—a nice thing to say!” exclaimed his wife, slapping his hand tenderly.
Then while we sipped maté I told them the history of my campaign, finding it necessary, when explaining my motives for joining the rebels, to make some slight deviations from the strictest form of truth. He agreed that my best plan was to go on to Rocha to wait there for a passport before proceeding to Montevideo. But I was not allowed to leave them that day; and, while we talked over our maté, Candelaria deftly repaired the telltale cuts in my poncho.
I spent the afternoon making friends with the children, who proved to be very intelligent and amusing little beggars, telling them some nonsensical stories I invented, and listening to their bird’s-nesting, armadillo-chasing, and other adventures. Then came a late dinner, after which the children said their prayers and retired, then we smoked and sang songs without an accompaniment, and I finished a happy day by sinking to sleep in a soft, clean bed.
I had announced my intention of leaving at daybreak next morning; and when I woke, finding it already light, I dressed hastily, and, going out, found my horse already saddled standing, with three other saddled horses, at the gate. In the kitchen I found Don Juan, his wife, and the two biggest boys having their early maté. My host told me that he had been up an hour, and was only waiting to wish me a prosperous journey before going out to gather up his cattle. He at once wished me goodbye, and with his two boys went off, leaving me to partake of poached eggs and coffee—quite an English breakfast.
I then rose and thanked the good señora for her hospitality.
“One moment,” she said, when I held out my hand, and, drawing a small silk bag from her bosom, she offered it to me. “My husband has given me permission to present you with this at parting. It is only a small gift, but while you are in this trouble and away from all your friends it perhaps might be of use to you.”
I did not wish to take money from her after all the kind treatment I had received, and so allowed the purse to lie on my open hand where she had placed it.
“And if I cannot accept it—” I began.
“Then you will hurt me very much,” she replied. “Could you do that after the kind words you spoke yesterday?”
I could not resist, but, after putting the purse away, took her hand and kissed it.
“Goodbye, Candelaria,” I said, “you have made me love your country and repent every harsh word I have ever spoken against it.”
Her hand remained in mine; she stood smiling, and did not seem to think the last word had been spoken yet. Then, seeing her there looking so sweet and loving, and remembering the words her husband had spoken the day before, I stooped and kissed her cheek and lips.
“Adieu, my friend, and God be with you,” she said.
I think there were tears in her eyes when I left her, but I could not see clearly, for mine also had suddenly grown dim.
And only the day before I had felt amused at the sight of this woman sitting hot and greasy over her work, and had called her Juno of the grease-pot! Now, after an acquaintance of about eighteen hours, I had actually kissed her—a wife and the mother of six children, bidding her adieu with trembling voice and moist eyes! I know that I shall never forget those eyes, full of sweet, pure affection and tender sympathy, looking into mine; all my life long shall I think of Candelaria, loving her like a sister. Could any woman in my own ultra-civilised and excessively proper country inspire me with a feeling like
