Juan Ángel knocked at my door before five. Everything was ready. María came out with a cup of coffee for me, and called Felipe to come and get his.
“We’ll see today,” said he, smiling mischievously; “we’ll see who’ll be afraid. And the black is just raging.”
María was as bewitching as my eyes must have told her she was. Upon her thick and shining braids rested a graceful black velvet hat, trimmed and tied under her chin with Scotch ribbon; on its brim, half hidden by her blue veil, was a rose still dewy. With one hand she held up the skirt of her black dress. Her blue belt was fastened with a diamond clasp. A deep cape hung from her shoulders.
“Which horse do you want to ride?” I asked her.
“The black.”
“But you can’t do that,” I replied, in surprise.
“Why not? Are you afraid he will throw me?”
“Of course I am.”
“I have ridden him before. Don’t you think I can do it again? Ask Emma if I am not more skillful than she. You will see how gentle the black will be with me.”
“Why, he won’t let you touch him. It is so long since you rode him that your skirt may frighten him.”
“I promise not to even show him the whip.”
Felipe, already mounted on his little chestnut, Chibo, was pricking him with his new spurs, and riding about the courtyard. My mother, too, was ready to set out. I placed her on her favorite bay, the only one, according to her, that was not a wild animal. I was very uneasy as I helped María mount the black. Before she leaped from the step to the saddle, she patted the horse’s neck. He had been very restless, but then stood motionless awaiting his load, and champing his bit, mindful of the lightest rustling of her dress.
“Don’t you see?” said María, already on his back. “He knows me. When papa bought him for you, this foot was sore, and I made Juan Ángel dress it carefully every afternoon.”
The horse snorted uneasily; but he knew that caressing voice. We set out, and Juan Ángel followed us, carrying on the pommel of his saddle a bundle containing the garments which the ladies would need in the village. María’s horse, proud of his load, seemed to wish to display his smoothest, daintiest pace. The jet-black mane quivered on his arched neck, and, falling between the short, eager ears, veiled his gleaming eyes. María rode him with an air of careless grace—as secure as if she were upon a plodding mule.
After we had gone several rods, she seemed to have lost all fear of the horse; and observing that I was reassured, she said to me, so that my mother could not hear her:
“I’m going to give him a cut, just one.”
“Be careful how you do it.”
“Only one, just to show you that he won’t mind it. You are unfair to the black, and prefer that gray you are on.”
“Now that he is so good to you, it will be different.”
“You rode him the night you went for the doctor.”
“Yes, I remember; he is a fine animal.”
“But, after all, you don’t value him as he deserves.”
“You even less; for you want to mortify him.”
“You shall see that he will not mind.”
“Carefully, carefully, María! Please give me the whip.”
“We’ll let it go till we reach the plain.”
She laughed at the anxiety into which her threat threw me.
“What is it?” asked my mother, who had overtaken us; I had slowed our pace so that she might come up with us.
“Nothing, Señora,” answered María; “only Efraín is sure the horse is going to throw me.”
“No, it is because you …” I began, but she put the whip-handle to her lips with a gesture bidding me be silent, and then handed it to me.
“How is it you are so brave today?” my mother asked her. “The other time you rode that horse you were afraid.”
“Yes, and you had to take another instead,” added Felipe.
“You are doing me a very bad turn,” replied María; “the Señor had made up his mind that I was a famous horsewoman.”
“But aren’t you afraid today?” persisted my mother.
“Yes, I am, but not so much. The horse is much more gentle, and then there is someone to scold him if he rears.”
When we reached the plain, the sun, tearing his way through the clouds which swathed the mountains behind us, flung metallic rays upon the forests which here and there came down into the level in winding lines or in isolated clumps of trees; the waters of the little brooks which we crossed, coming out into the gleam of the sun’s light, ran away to hide themselves in the shadows, and the distant windings of the Zabaletas seemed as if of liquid silver, bordered by the blue of the thickets.
As we entered the great forest, leaving the plain behind us, María and I remained silent for a long time; but Felipe did not break off his chatter, asking his mother a thousand questions about all he saw.
Finally, María turned to me, and said: “What are you thinking about so intently? You are becoming sad again, as you were last night—very different from what you were a little while ago. Is the misfortune, then, so great?”
“I was not thinking about that; you make me forget that.”
“Is the loss irrecoverable?”
“Perhaps not. But what I was thinking about is Braulio’s happiness.”
“About his only?”
“I can easily imagine Braulio’s. He is going to be completely happy from today on; but I am to go away, and I am to be away from you for years.”
She lifted her veil, and said, “That loss, then, is not very great?”
“Why do you insist on talking about that?”
“Can’t you guess? If it is only my thought, I ought not to confide it to you. But I should prefer that you had not seen me so cheerful today after what you told me last night.”
“Is it this news that made you cheerful?”
“It made me sad when
