In a wretched village which may be found at one side of the highway
leading to Gômara, I saw not long since the spot where the strange
ceremony of the Count’s marriage is said to have taken place.
After he, kneeling upon the humble grave, had pressed the hand of
Margarita in his own, and a priest, authorized by the Pope, had blessed
the mournful union, the story goes that the miracle ceased, and _the
dead hand_ buried itself forever.
At the foot of some great old trees there is a bit of meadow which,
every spring, covers itself spontaneously with flowers.
The country-folk say that this is the burial place of Margarita.