The river flowed serene, silent. The cabinet-maker, with his elbow on the hand-rail of the bridge, contemplated the black current of the river; the great plain which lost itself in the frightful shadow of the open country. A sentiment of gentle melancholy, consoling and soothing, came over his soul. Meantime, the more he dwelt on his misfortune, the more desolate appeared his life’s horizon, and something akin to that sad homesickness, which he experienced in his soul, when the maiden first said to him, _I love you_, passed like a refreshing wave through his soul. The abyss at his feet attracted him, called him. What did Gabriel think in those moments? Who can know? “No!” he murmured, turning and taking his way to the city. The next day, he told Doña Pancha in a few words what had happened and then said no more of the matter. In vain Tacho, Solis, and López questioned him, on various occasions. He did not again mention Carmen. He learned that she had left Pluviosilla, but made no effort to learn where she had gone; and, not because he had forgotten her, but because he had resolved never to speak of her again. The journeyman and Doña Pancha repeated to him the conversation of Alberto and his friends, what they said of the planned elopement, but he scarcely deigned to listen, and answered with a scornful and profoundly sad smile. When Angelito found him and told him that Carmen was at Xochiapan, repeating all that she had said, he hung his head as if he sought his answer on the ground, and exclaimed: “Say you have not seen me. No--tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.” And he turned away, disdainful and sad. * * * * * The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue of San Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen. Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.