“And my cousin, Senorita Rosario?”

“The senora over again!” said the peasant.  “What more can I tell you of Dona Rosarito but that that she is the living image of her mother?  You will have a treasure, Senor Don Jose, if it is true, as I hear, that you have come to be married to her.  She will be a worthy mate for you, and the young lady will have nothing to complain of, either.  Between Pedro and Pedro the difference is not very great.”

“And Senor Don Cayetano?”

“Buried in his books as usual.  He has a library bigger than the cathedral; and he roots up the earth, besides, searching for stones covered with fantastical scrawls, that were written, they say, by the Moors.”

“How soon shall we reach Orbajosa?”

“By nine o’clock, God willing.  How delighted the senora will be when she sees her nephew!  And yesterday, Senorita Rosario was putting the room you are to have in order.  As they have never seen you, both mother and daughter think of nothing else but what Senor Don Jose is like, or is not like.  The time has now come for letters to be silent and tongues to talk.  The young lady will see her cousin and all will be joy and merry-making.  If God wills, all will end happily, as the saying is.”

“As neither my aunt nor my cousin has yet seen me,” said the traveller smiling, “it is not wise to make plans.”

“That’s true; for that reason it was said that the bay horse is of one mind and he who saddles him of another,” answered the peasant.  “But the face does not lie.  What a jewel you are getting! and she, what a handsome man!”

The young man did not hear Uncle Licurgo’s last words, for he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.  Arrived at a bend in the road, the peasant turned his horse’s head in another direction, saying: 

“We must follow this path now.  The bridge is broken, and the river can only be forded at the Hill of the Lilies.”

“The Hill of the Lilies,” repeated the cavalier, emerging from his revery.  “How abundant beautiful names are in these unattractive localities!  Since I have been travelling in this part of the country the terrible irony of the names is a constant surprise to me.  Some place that is remarkable for its barren aspect and the desolate sadness of the landscape is called Valleameno (Pleasant Valley).  Some wretched mud-walled village stretched on a barren plain and proclaiming its poverty in diverse ways has the insolence to call itself Villarica (Rich Town); and some arid and stony ravine, where not even the thistles can find nourishment, calls itself, nevertheless, Valdeflores (Vale of Flowers).  That hill in front of us is the Hill of the Lilies?  But where, in Heaven’s name, are the lilies?  I see nothing but stones and withered grass.  Call it Hill of Desolation, and you will be right.  With the exception of Villahorrenda, whose appearance corresponds with its name, all is irony here.  Beautiful words, a prosaic and mean reality.  The blind would be happy in this country, which for the tongue is a Paradise and for the eyes a hell.”