I went back to the house with Salome and Fermín, who were loaded with gourds. She had made a bundle of hers in her handkerchief, and above it bore on her head the rustic jar, which, though unsupported by her hand, did not prevent her graceful form from displaying all its lithe ease of movement.
As soon as Salome leaped down, as before, she thanked me with a “God reward you,” and her pleasantest smile, adding: “It was in payment for this that I was by the side of the river, up the stream, throwing flowers in for your bath. Didn’t you see them?”
“Yes, but I thought it was a troop of monkeys up there.”
“How stupid of you! And I almost had a fall climbing the tree for the blossoms.”
“And are you so foolish as to believe that I did not know it was you who threw the flowers in?”
“Well, Juan Ángel told me that at the farm they throw roses into the tank when you take a bath, and I thought I would throw into the river the best flowers I could find.”
At four in the afternoon came my prolonged leave-taking. My comadre made me many promises of recommending me to the milagroso of Buga, to secure me a pleasant journey and speedy return. As I said goodbye to Salome, who managed just then to be away from the others, she pressed my hand warmly, and said: “Remember, I depend upon yon. Don’t say goodbye to me for your stupid journey; for, even if it uses me up, I am coming out to the road to see you, should it be only after you have passed by. Don’t forget me … you know if you do, I don’t know what to do with my papa.”
Over on the other side of one of the torrents that run noisily down the slope, between the swelling forest-knolls, I heard a man’s full voice singing:
“Of Time I ask more time,
And Time time giveth me;
Yet Time himself doth say,
My dreams dispelled shall be.”
The singer came out of the woods. It was Tiburcio. With his cloak hanging over one shoulder, and across the other a staff from the end of which hung a little bundle, he was holding on his way, unbosoming his grief to solitude. He was silent, and stopped on seeing me. After a pleasant and respectful greeting, he came nearer and said: “Caramba! You are going up late and at a pace, when the black sweats like that! Where do you come from, swallowing the wind in this way?”
“I have been making some calls. The last one, as your good-luck would have it, was at Salome’s house.”
“It’s a dog’s age since you were there.”
“I’m very sorry for that. And you, how long is it since you were there?”
The young man hung his head, and began to whip a little bush with his stick. At last he looked up at me and said: “It was her fault. What did she tell you?”
“That you are ungrateful and jealous, and that she is dying for you. That’s all.”
“Did she tell you all that? Then she kept back the best.”
“What is it you call the best?”
“The fine times she has with that boy—Justiniano.”
“Listen to me. Do you think that I could be in love with Salome?”
“How could I think that?”
“Well, Salome is as much in love with Justiniano as I am with her. You must judge that girl at her true worth, which, luckily for you, is great. You have offended her with your jealousy; yet if you go and try to please her, she will forgive you, and love you more than ever.”
Tiburcio stood reflecting. Then he said, with a certain tone and air of sadness: “Look, my boy Efraín, I love her so much that she cannot imagine the torture she has caused me this month. When a man has the disposition which God has given me, he can endure everything except being taken for a simpleton. I know what I am saying: the fault is Salome’s.”
“What you do not know is, that today, when she was telling me of your unkindness, she was in a desperate way, and cried pitifully.”
“Really?”
“And I inferred that you were the cause of it all. If you love her as you say you do, why don’t you marry her? Once in your own house, who could see her without your consent?”
“I confess that I have thought of marrying, but I cannot make up my mind. In the first place, because Salome always thinks I am suspicious; and in the second, I do not know if ’ñor Custodio would give her to me.”
“Well, as concerns her, you know now what I have told you. As for her father, I’ll answer for him. You must act reasonably. In proof that you believe me, you must go this very afternoon to Salome’s house, and without appearing to know what has taken place, make her a call.”
“Caramba! … what a hurry you are in! So you will answer for everything?”
“I know that Salome is the purest, prettiest, and smartest girl you can find; and as for her parents, I know that they will give her to you gladly.”
“I declare, you give me a mind to go.”
“If you don’t go, and Salome should dismiss you, and so you should lose her, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
“I’ll go, master.”
“That’s settled, then. It is useless for me to ask you to inform me how it goes with you, for I am certain that you will be very much obliged to me. Goodbye; it’s almost five.”
“Goodbye, my master. God reward you. I will certainly tell you what happens.”
“Be careful not to go singing those verses where Salome can hear you.”
Tiburcio laughed and then replied: “Do they
