Page:Iracéma, the honey-lips (1886).djvu/29

It was the hour in which the sweet Aracaty^[1] comes up from the sea and spreads over the arid plains its delicious freshness. The plant breathes, and a gentle shiver upraises the green tresses of the forest.

The Christian looks upon the setting sun. The shadow gliding down the mountains and covering the valley enters into his soul. He thinks of his native place and the beloved ones he has left behind. He wonders if he shall some day see them again. Nature all round bewails the death of day. Murmurs the tremulous, tearful wave; moans the breeze in the foliage; even silence is sorrowful.

Iraçéma stood before the young warrior.

"Is it the presence of Iraçéma that disturbs the peace of the stranger՚s brow?"

Martim looked softly in the virgin՚s face.

"No, daughter of Araken! thy presence gladdens me like the morning light. It was the memory of my native land that brought a saudade to my anxious soul."

"A bride awaits him there?"

The stranger averted his eyes. Iraçéma՚s head sank upon her shoulder, like the tender palm of the Carnaúba when the rain overhangs the plains.

"She is not sweeter than Iraçéma, the maiden of the honied lips, nor more beautiful!" murmured the guest.

"The forest flower is beautiful when it has a branch to shelter it, a trunk round which to entwine itself. Iraçéma does not live in the soul of a warrior. She never felt the freshness of his smile."

Silent were both; their eyes fell to the ground. They heard nought save the beating of their hearts.