“No, no, I swear I won't,” exclaimed Marcelino, none too happy with the tenor of events. “Don't act so upset, woman, anybody who sees you will think that they've already thrown you out of the house, as if everybody were already pointing a finger at you … Nobody knows, you little coward! Nobody saw us, right? And anyway, what's happened to you isn't so terrible, I mean, we can make it right, so there's no reason to tell anybody yet. Go on, Santa,” he added, pulling her softly against his chest, “go on home as if nothing has happened, and tomorrow we'll see each other again, just the two of us, like today, and I bet you'll be laughing about these fears by then.”

The evening flow of water had started over the big mill dam and darkness was gathering everywhere. It was almost nighttime. Three or four workers returning from the maguey fields, bent over under their heavy burdens, bustled past the couple without recognizing them.

“Buenas Noches, God willing,” they murmured without even slowing down.

“Buenas Noches,” answered Marcelino, altering his voice slightly, as Santa tried to hide behind his back.

At this hour they could no longer cross the river on the stepping stones, because when the mills that divert part of the river's current to power their machinery during the day cease to operate in the evening, the volume of the river's flow returns to a higher level. The stones were under water, so the couple had to take the narrow path along the bank and climb across the dangerous bridge hewn from a single tree trunk, without any rail or place to recover one's balance, impossible to traverse without agility, firmness, and practice. The river looked black, more like ink than water, as it passed below them with a raspy, frightening, interminable sigh. Village dogs barked invisibly in the middle distance.

“No, you go first,” indicated Marcelino, who, upon reaching the beginning of the bridge, stepped back to let Santa cross first. “You are used to it, so show me how. This isn't really a bridge, anyway, it's just a log and must be sixteen feet long …”

“Give me your hand,” said Santa. “Don't look at the water and let me guide you.”

“Reaching the middle of the trunk, Santa stopped, and with a decisiveness made more solemn by the abyss beneath her feet, the darkness of the night, and the hoarse moaning of the water, unable to turn around or even look back for fear of losing her balance, she said:

“Marcelino, tell me again, swear to me again, that whatever happens you won't abandon me, swear, or I'll jump right now!”

And she tried to let go of his hand.

“I swear, I swear, for God's sake, Santa, don't act crazy, we'll fall,” replied the second lieutenant, absolutely terrified. Barely had they reached the opposite bank when the ferocious village girl spied two approaching shapes in the twilight.

“Quick, get out of here, my brothers are coming.”