"Do you see," said he to me, as we were lying at the door of the cabin, "that fleecy mist which dulls the light of the stars? These are the vapors which, at the end of every hot day, arise from the lakes, brooks, and waterfalls. Do you think it possible that, at the command of a mortal like ourselves, this shadowy impalpable fog should assume the form of a friend who has been lost, or an enemy that has been murdered?"
"I doubt that much," I replied, astonished at this preamble; "I fancied that these superstitious notions were peculiar only to northern climes."
"Here," said Calros, in a solemn tone, "ghosts haunt not the abodes of the living; they love to flit about in the woods, and to frisk among the leaves and flowers. But you smile. Let us talk of something else. Did you see ña Sacramenta this evening?"
"The pretty girl with the wreath of cucuyos and the suchil chaplet?"
"The same. She is very beautiful, is she not? Six months ago, at a fandango in the neighborhood, a quarrel arose on her account, which was followed by the death of a man. The victim was a relation of mine; and, according to universal custom, it became my duty to avenge his death. I had, besides, an additional inducement in seeking the murderer; he adored Sacramenta, and every one who loves her is my sworn enemy. Twenty times have I persuaded myself into a belief that Sacramenta loved me, and twenty times have I been forced to confess to myself that I was deceived. I feel that I love Sacramenta more than my life—than my honor, perhaps—else I should have been on the murderer's traces long ago; and yet this evening I have even ventured to hope."
