The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter. "Even women seem to have hated him," said one. "He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!" said another, laughing. Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. She had heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet. "You are a prudent young woman," he said in a low voice; "by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future." And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress. "What is the matter?" cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. "You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?" "My heart--it's the crowd--so much light--I must rest. Tell my father I've gone to rest," and steadying herself by her aunt's arm, she went to her room. "You are cold! Do you want some tea?" asked Aunt Isabel at the door. Maria shook her head. "Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest," she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing: "Mother, mother, my mother!" The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door--her father, her aunt, Dona Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her. Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria's candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door. "She must have gone to bed," the old lady called back to her brother. "At her age one sleeps like the dead." When all was still again, Maria rose slowly, and looked out on the terrace with its vines bathed in the white moonlight. "A peaceful future!--Sleep like the dead!" she said aloud; and she went out. The city was mute; only now and then a carriage could be heard crossing the wooden bridge. The girl raised her eyes toward the sky; then slowly she took off her rings, the pendants in her ears, the comb and jewelled pins in her hair, and put them on the balustrade of the terrace; then she looked toward the river. A little bark, loaded with zacate, drew up to the landing-place below the terrace. One of the two men in it climbed the stone steps, sprang over the wall, and in a moment was mounting the stairway of the terrace. At sight of Maria, he stopped, then approached slowly. Maria drew back. "Crisostomo!" she said, speaking low. She was terrified.