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Their lips
murmured words softer than the rustling of the leaves and sweeter
than the aromatic odors that floated through the garden. It was the
hour when the sirens of the lake take advantage of the fast falling
twilight to show their merry heads above the waves to gaze upon the
setting sun and sing it to rest. It is said that their eyes and hair
are blue, and that they are crowned with white and red water plants;
that at times the foam reveals their shapely forms, whiter than
the foam itself, and that when night descends completely they begin
their divine sports, playing mysterious airs like those of AEolian
harps. But let us turn to our young people and listen to the end of
their conversation. Ibarra was speaking to Maria Clara.
"Tomorrow before daybreak your wish shall be fulfilled. I'll arrange
everything tonight so that nothing will be lacking."
"Then I'll write to my girl friends to come. But arrange it so that
the curate won't be there."
"Why?"
"Because he seems to be watching me.


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