The bride, at whom I glanced furtively from time to time, had a dejected and weary appearance. This was very likely nothing more than the fatigue caused by the long time they were at the table, but I fancied that it was melancholy, the bitterness of the chalice she had put to her lips, the foretaste of the bitter draught.
And why not? Had I not overheard the conversation in the yew tree? Was I not positive that my uncle inspired her with an inexplicable feeling of aversion, and that only in order to perform a moral duty, the “categorical imperative” of her faith, had she drawn near to the altar, a veritable sacrificial altar for her? I wanted, at all hazards, to penetrate into the depths of her inmost soul, and read that gentle and suffering spirit. What could she be thinking about? What can she hope for? What can the fair bride be afraid of?
Meanwhile, the champagne, which had only quickened my imagination, began to affect the others more strongly, as was shown by their flushed faces, flashing eyes, somewhat obstreperous voices, unwarrantable and vehement loquacity, loud laughter, and silly effusiveness. Pimentel, although more decorous and self-possessed than the rest, became animated also, discussing with my uncle a grand project which would assuredly be an epoch-making event in the annals of the Sotopeña party; nothing less than to convert the procession in honor of the Virgin into an imposing political manifestation, Don Vicente himself to carry the standard, while all the people of Pontevedra and its vicinity, for seven leagues around, would turn out to furnish an escort of honor to their provincial divinities, the Virgin and their wonder-working saint. Some of the priests were listening to this project, and highly applauded it, exclaiming: “Excellent--give Catholic sentiment the first place; that’s the way!” Castro Mera was vehemently insisting on the excellency of law, a young man from San Andrés was challenging another from Pontevedra to see which could drink the greatest quantity of Curaçoa; the officer of Marines was disputing with the Mayor about the fishing tackle prohibited by law; Serafín was laughing convulsively because Viñal was maintaining with great energy that he had documents which proved that Tenero had founded Hellenes, and was even boasting that he knew the spot where Tenero was probably buried.