"Ah, Ruis," she murmured, "I have watched for you the entire day. This morning I went to our Eden, and again this afternoon. Where were you? Ruis, I caught a butterfly, it was like a winged acacia, and I gathered the jasmines you like, and waited, but you did not come. My Ruis, I thought you ill perhaps, yet everything was so fair and still I knew you could not be but well. And, Ruis, as I was leaving, a yellow-breast began to sing. He seemed to bring a message from you. I know it now, it was that you would come to-night. Ruis, forgive my foolish words, it is because my heart is full of love for you. But why do you not dismount? Come, we will stroll there beneath the stars. Do you know, Ruis, with you I am so happy there are moments when I could die of joy. But why do you not speak to me? Is it the night? My Ruis, your face seems changed." "Fausta, I have come to say good-bye." "Good-bye? Ruis, you jest." "No, Fausta, it is not jest. Don Jayme and I return to Spain." "To Spain! It cannot be! You said that when you went, we both should go; that I should be your wife." "Don Jayme has found another for me." "And what of your word, Don Ruis?" "There, Fausta, it is painful enough. Were it not for Don Jayme, you know--naturally, you know--you know very well what I would do. But see, what would you? It is painful, indeed." "Painful? Painful to whom? Not to Don Jayme, nor seemingly to you." "Ah, but it is; and see, I have brought you this, and this too." He took the bags from the holster and held them to her. Yet she made no motion to take them. She stepped back a little, and to the midnight of her eyes came a sudden flash. "How much is in them," he continued, "I do not know, but it must be like St. Peter's pence; you can see"--and he affected a little laugh--"they are not light to hold. Truly they must represent a pretty dower, for Don Jayme said--for pleasantry, no doubt--'Ruis, you will do well to get an acknowledgment.'" "Ruis! He called you Ruis! Your name is Judas." The girl's face was always white, but now it was whiter than the moon. The red had left her lips, and her voice, which had been melodious as the consonance of citherns and guitars, grew abruptly harsh and strident. She was trembling from head to foot. "But will you not take them?" he asked, referring to the bags of money which, awkwardly enough, he still held out to her. "Get back, Spaniard, into the night from which you came. I gave you love, you bring me gold. I gave my trust, you ask a receipt. You shall have it." She had moved forward near to him again, and glared in his face. "But if you refuse the gold, what," he asked, almost piteously, "what can I give?" "Nothing save this dirk." And before the intention could have been divined, she tore the dagger from his belt and sheathed it in his heart. "There is my receipt," she cried.