A flood was always a great day for the barber.  He closed shop and planted himself out on a bridge, oblivious to wind and rain, haranguing the crowds of spectators, terrifying the stupid with his exaggerations and inventions, and announcing hair-raising news which he asserted he had just received from the Governor by telegraph, and according to which, in two hours, there would not be a cellar-hole left of the place.  Even the miracle-working San Bernardo would be washed into the sea!

When Rafael found him upon the bridge that night, after the procession, Cupido was on the point of coming to blows with several rustics, who had grown indignant at his heresies.

Stepping aside from the crowd, the two began a conversation about the dangers of the flood.  Cupido, as usual, was well-informed.  He had been told a poor old man had been cut off in an orchard and drowned.  That was probably not the only accident that had taken place.  Horses and pigs in large numbers had drifted past under the bridge, early in the afternoon.

The barber talked earnestly and with some sadness, it seemed.  Rafael listened in silence, scanning his face anxiously, as if looking for a chance to speak of something which he dared not broach.

“And how about the Blue House,” he ventured finally, “that farm of dona Pepa’s where you go sometimes?  Will anything be wrong down there?”

“It’s a good solid place,” the barber replied, “and this isn’t the first flood it’s been through....  But it’s right on the river, and by this time the garden must be a lake; the water will surely be up to the second story.  I’ll bet dona Pepa’s poor niece is scared out of her wits...  Just imagine—­coming from so far away and from such pretty places, and running into a mess like this ...”

Rafael seemed to meditate for a moment.  Then as if an idea that had been dancing about in his head all day had just occurred to him, he said: 

“Suppose we take a run down there!...  What do you say, Cupido?”

“Down there!...  And how’ll we get there?”

But the proposal, from its very rashness, was bound to appeal to a man like the barber, who at length began to laugh, as if the adventure were a highly amusing one.

“You’re right!  We could get through!  It will look funny, all right!  Us two paddling up like a couple of Venetian gondoliers to serenade a celebrated prima donna in her fright ...  I’ve a good mind to run home and fetch my guitar along ...”

“What the devil, Cupido!  No guitar business!  What a josher you are!  Our job is to get those women out of there.  They’ll get drowned if we don’t.”

The barber, insisting on his romantic idea, fixed a pair of shrewd eyes on Rafael.

“I see!  So you’re interested in the illustrious artiste, too ...  You rascal!  You’re smitten on her reputation for good looks ...  But no ...  I remember ... you’ve seen her; she told me so herself.”