How precious near I was to making a
tremendous fool of myself. It's you I have to thank, old man. Of
course, as you saw, I should never have cared for any one but
Rosamund, and it's pretty sure that she would never have been happy
with any one but me. I wanted you to be a witness at our wedding,
and now you've bolted, confound you! Write to my London address, and
it will be forwarded."
Will thrust the letter into his pocket, went out into the street,
and walked to the hotel through heavy rain, without thinking to open
his umbrella.
Next morning, the sky was clear again, the sunny air fresh as that
of spring. Will rose earlier than usual, and set out on an
excursion. He took train to Hendaye, the little frontier town, at
the mouth of the Bidassoa, crossed the river in a boat, stepped on
to Spanish soil, and climbed the hill on which stands Fuenterabbia.
Later he passed again to the French shore, and lunched at the hotel.
Then he took a carriage, and drove up the gorge of Bidassoa,
enjoying the wild mountain scenery as much as he had enjoyed
anything in his life. The road bridged the river; it brought him
into Spain once more, and on as far as to the Spanish village of
Vera, where he lingered in the mellowing afternoon. All round him
were green slopes of the Pyrenees, green with pasture and with turf,
with bracken, with woods of oak. There came by a yoke of white oxen,
their heads covered with the wonted sheepskin, and on their
foreheads the fringe of red wool tassels; he touched a warm flank
with his palm, and looked into the mild, lustrous eyes of the beast
that passed near him.
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