Of silver also were his heavy
spurs, the pommel of his saddle, his stirrups, and the headstall of
his bridle. He was a great talker; never, in fact, in the whole course
of my varied experience have I encountered anyone who could pour out
such an incessant stream of talk about small matters as this man. We
all sat together in the social kitchen, sipping _mate_; I taking
little part in the conversation, which was all about horses, scarcely
even listening to what the others were saying. Reclining against the
wall, I occupied myself agreeably watching the sweet face of Margarita,
which in her happy excitement had become suffused with a delicate rosy
colour. I have always had a great love for the beautiful: sunsets,
wild flowers, especially verbenas, so prettily called margaritas in
this country; and beyond everything the rainbow spanning the vast
gloomy heavens, with its green and violet arch, when the storm-cloud
passes eastward over the wet sun-flushed earth. All these things have
a singular fascination for my soul. But beauty when it presents itself
in the human form is even more than these things. There is in it a
magnetic power drawing my heart; a something that is not love, for how
can a married man have a feeling like that towards anyone except his
wife? No, it is not love, but a sacred ethereal kind of affection,
resembling love only as the fragrance of violets resembles the taste
of honey and the honey-comb.
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