Green heads still rose over us, but we were
aloft, far above the sea. And now we were going through a
ravine or pass where the walking was better. Here, too, a
wind reached us and it was cooler. Cool eve of the heights
drew on. We came to a bubbling well of coldest water and
drank to our great refreshment. Veritable pine trees, which
we never saw in the lowlands, towered above and sang. The
path was easier, but hardly, hardly, could Beltran drag himself
along it. His arm was over my shoulder.
Out of the dark pass we came upon a table almost bare
of trees and covered with a fine soft grass. The mountains
of Cibao, five leagues--maybe more--away, hung in emerald
purple and gold under the sinking sun. The highest
rocky peaks rose pale gold. Below us and between those
mountains on which we stood and the golden mountains
of Cibao, spread that plain, so beautiful, so wide and long,
so fertile and smiling and vast, that afterwards was
called the Royal Plain! East and west one might not see
the end; south only the golden mountains stopped it. And
rivers shone, one great river and many lesser streams. And
we saw afar many plumes of smoke from many villages,
and we made out maize fields, for the plain was populous.
_Vega Real_! So lovely was it in that bright eve! The very
pain of the day made it lovelier.
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