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 made up of a thousand sounds, harmonizing and blending in one majestic calm; the murmur of the water, the stirring of the foliage, the mysterious movements of unseen creatures crawling along under the leaves or patiently boring their winding galleries in the creaking trunks.

The nightingale began again to sing, timidly, like an artist afraid of an impending interruption.  He uttered a few disconnected notes with anxious rests between them—­love sighs they seemed, broken by sobs of passion.  Then gradually he took courage, regained self-confidence, and entered on his full song, just as a soft breeze rose, swept over the island, and set all the trees and reeds rustling in mysterious accompaniment.

The bird gradually grew intoxicated with the sound of his own trilling, cadenced, voice; one could almost see him up there in the thick darkness, panting, ardent, in the spasm of his musical inspiration, utterly engrossed in his own beautiful little world of song, overwhelmed by the charm of his own artistry.

But the bird had ceased his music when the two lovers awoke in a tight embrace, still in ecstasy from the song of love to which they had fallen asleep.  Leonora was resting a dishevelled head on Rafael’s shoulder, caressing his neck with an eager, wearied breathing, whispering in his ear, random, incoherent words that still were vibrant with emotion.

How happy she was there!  Everything comes for true love!  Many a time, during the days of her unkindness to him, she had looked out from her balcony upon the river winding down through the slumbering countryside; and she had thought with rapture of a stroll some day through that immense garden on Rafael’s arm—­of gliding, gliding down the Jucar, to that very island.

“My love is an ancient thing,” she murmured.  “Do you suppose, I have been loving you only since the other night?  No, I have loved you for a long, long time....  But don’t you go and get conceited on that account, su senoria!  I don’t know how it began:  It must have been when you were away in Madrid.  When I saw you again I knew that I was lost.  If I still resisted, it was because I was a wise woman; because I saw things clearly.  Now I’m mad and I’ve thrown my better judgment to the winds.  God knows what will become of us....  But come what may, love me, Rafael, love me.  Swear that you’ll love me always.  It would be cruel to desert me after awakening a passion like this.”