"Then, besides, he had remedies for wounds, for he dabbled a little in almost everything and had associated with the bone-setters and the folks who make drugs and ointments out of the herbs that grow on the mountain to set you on your feet when there is anything wrong with you. He had even caused to be compounded for himself a sort of extract of some malignant plants or other, I don't know exactly what—flowers of aconite, or something of that description—which he carried about with him in a ring on his finger, saying that a man should always have it in his power to be master of his own life, and that sometimes, when one wishes to make an end of it, he fails to find his knife ready at hand. A knife, that may be taken from you; a ring, no—and by a simple movement of the finger to the lips, you are free. There! He was a man, was that Araquil.
"So one day (it was Easter Monday), at the romeria of Loyola, this handsome young fellow of twenty-five, who had been loved but had never loved, met a young girl whom he invited to dance with him, even as he had invited many another. It was Pepa Chegaray. A waltz-tune has the effect of turning young folks' brains, and the guitarero is the grand-master of the art of love—that is the way I feel about it, at least. It was fated that neither Juan nor Pepa were to forget that first interview, that dance in the open air, the music accompanied by smiles and song, more intoxicating than our cider.
In the morning there rises a beautiful star.
They say there is none more beautiful in the heavens;
