slowly, with sounds of cow-bells. The harnessed oxen, indolent and
strong,--all wearing the traditional head-gear of sheepskin, fallow
colored, which gives to them the air of bisons or of aurochs, pulled
those heavy carts, the wheels of which are solid disks, like those of
antique chariots. The cowboys, holding the long stick in their hands,
marched in front, always noiselessly, in sandals, the pink cotton shirt
revealing the chest, the waistcoat thrown over the left shoulder--and
the woolen cap drawn over a face shaven, thin, grave, to which the
width of the jaws and of the muscles of the neck gives an expression of
massive solidity.

Then, there were intervals of solitude when one heard, in these paths,
only the buzz of flies, in the yellowed and finishing shade of the
trees.

Ramuntcho looked at them, at these rare passers-by who crossed his road,
surprised at not meeting somebody he knew who would stop before him.
But there were no familiar faces. And the friends whom he met were
not effusive, there were only vague good-days exchanged with folks who
turned round a little, with an impression of having seen him sometime,
but not recalling when, and fell back into the humble dream of the
fields.--And he felt more emphasized than ever the primary differences
between him and those farm laborers.

Over there, however, comes one of those carts whose sheaf is so big that
branches of oaks in its passage catch it. In front, walks the driver,
with a look of soft resignation, a big, peaceful boy, red as the ferns,
red as the autumn, with a reddish fur in a bush on his bare chest; he
walks with a supple and nonchalant manner, his arms extended like those
of a cross on his goad, placed across his shoulders. Thus, doubtless, on
these same mountains, marched his ancestors, farm laborers and cowboys
like him since numberless centuries.

And this one, at Ramuntcho's aspect, touches the forehead of his oxen,
stops them with a gesture and a cry of command, then comes to the
traveller, extending to him his brave hands.--Florentino! A Florentino
much changed, having squarer shoulders, quite a man now, with an assured
and fixed demeanor.

The two friends embrace each other. Then, they scan each other's faces
in silence, troubled suddenly by the wave of reminiscences which come
from the depth of their minds and which neither the one nor the other
knows how to express; Ramuntcho, not better than Florentino, for, if his
language be inf