And it oppresses them to conceive things which they are powerless to tell; then their embarrassed looks return absent-mindedly to the two beautiful, big oxen: “They are mine, you know,” says Florentino. “I was married two years ago.--My wife works. And, by working--we are beginning to get along.--Oh!” he adds, with naive pride, “I have another pair of oxen like these at the house.” Then he ceases to talk, flushing suddenly under his sunburn, for he has the tact which comes from the heart, which the humblest possess often by nature, but which education never gives, even to the most refined people in the world: considering the desolate return of Ramuntcho, his broken destiny, his betrothed buried over there among the black nuns, his mother dying, Florentino is afraid to have been already too cruel in displaying too much his own happiness. Then the silence returned; they looked at each other for an instant with kind smiles, finding no words. Besides, between them, the abyss of different conceptions has grown deeper in these three years. And Florentino, touching anew the foreheads of his oxen, makes them march again with a call of his tongue, and presses tighter the hand of his friend: “We shall see each other again, shall we not?” And the noise of the cow-bells is soon lost in the calm of the road more shady, where begins to diminish the heat of the day-- “Well, he has succeeded in life, that one!” thinks Ramuntcho lugubriously, continuing his walk under the autumn branches-- The road which he follows ascends, hollowed here and there by springs and sometimes crossed by big roots of oaks. Soon Etchezar will appear to him and, before seeing it, the image of it becomes more and more precise in him, recalled and enlivened in his memory by the aspect of the surroundings.