n prairies or the vast
rivers of America, performing exploits he had read about in the novels
of Fenimore Cooper and Mayne Reid.

A tributary joined the Jucar at this point, emptying gently into the
main stream from under a thicket of reeds and trees that formed a
triumphal arch of foliage. At the confluence rose the island--a tiny
piece of land almost level with the water, but as fresh as green and
fragrant as an aquatic bouquet. The banks were lined with dense clumps
of cane, and a few willows that bent their hairy foliage low over the
water, forming dark vaults through which the boat could make its way.

The two lovers entered the shade. The curtain of branches concealed them
from the river; a bare tear of moonlight managed to filter through the
mane of willows.

Leonora felt a first sense of uneasiness in this dark, damp, cave-like
haunt. Invisible animals took to the water with dull splashes as they
heard the boat's bow touch the mud of the bank. The actress clutched her
lover's arm with nervous pleasure.

"Here we are," murmured Rafael. "Hold on to something and get out.
Careful, careful! Don't you want to hear the nightingale? Here we have
him. Listen."

It was true. In one of the willows, at the other side of the island, the
mysterious bird was trilling from his hiding place, a dizzying shower of
notes, which broke at the crescendo of the musical whirl-pool into a
plaint as soft and long-sustained as a golden thread stretched in the
silence of the night across the river, that seemed to be applauding
with its hushed murmur. To get nearer, the lovers went up through the
rushes, stopping, bending over at each step, to keep the branches from
crackling underneath their feet.

Favoring moisture had covered the islet with an exuberant undergrowth.
Leonora repressed exclamations of glee as she found her feet caught in
meshes of reeds or received the rude caresses of the branches that
snapped back, as Rafael went ahead, and brushed against her face. She
called for help in a muffled voice; and Rafael, laughing also, would
hold out his hand to her, taking her finally to the very foot of the
tree where the nightingale was singing.

The bird, divining the presence of intruders, ceased his song. Doubtless
he had heard the rustle of their clothing as they sat down at the foot
of the tree, or the tender words they were murmuring into each other's
ear.

Over all, the silence of slumbering Nature reigned--that silence m