peasant turned his horse's head in another direction, saying:

"We must follow this path now. The bridge is broken, and the river can
only be forded at the Hill of the Lilies."

"The Hill of the Lilies," repeated the cavalier, emerging from his
revery. "How abundant beautiful names are in these unattractive
localities! Since I have been travelling in this part of the country
the terrible irony of the names is a constant surprise to me. Some place
that is remarkable for its barren aspect and the desolate sadness of
the landscape is called Valleameno (Pleasant Valley). Some wretched
mud-walled village stretched on a barren plain and proclaiming its
poverty in diverse ways has the insolence to call itself Villarica (Rich
Town); and some arid and stony ravine, where not even the thistles
can find nourishment, calls itself, nevertheless, Valdeflores (Vale of
Flowers). That hill in front of us is the Hill of the Lilies? But where,
in Heaven's name, are the lilies? I see nothing but stones and withered
grass. Call it Hill of Desolation, and you will be right. With the
exception of Villahorrenda, whose appearance corresponds with its name,
all is irony here. Beautiful words, a prosaic and mean reality. The
blind would be happy in this country, which for the tongue is a Paradise
and for the eyes a hell."

Senor Licurgo either did not hear the young man's words, or, hearing, he
paid no attention to them. When they had forded the river, which, turbid
and impetuous, hurried on with impatient haste, as if fleeing from its
own hands, the peasant pointed with outstretched arm to some barren and
extensive fields that were to be seen on the left, and said:

"Those are the Poplars of Bustamante."