“I went and got my horse, and took her up behind me, and we travelled all the rest of the night without saying a word to each other. When daylight came we stopped at a lonely inn, not far from a hermitage. There I said to Carmen: “‘Listen--I forget everything, I won’t mention anything to you. But swear one thing to me--that you’ll come with me to America, and live there quietly!’ “‘No,’ said she, in a sulky voice, ‘I won’t go to America--I am very well here.’ “‘That’s because you’re near Lucas. But be very sure that even if he gets well now, he won’t make old bones. And, indeed, why should I quarrel with him? I’m tired of killing all your lovers; I’ll kill you this time.’ “She looked at me steadily with her wild eyes, and then she said: “‘I’ve always thought you would kill me. The very first time I saw you I had just met a priest at the door of my house. And to-night, as we were going out of Cordova, didn’t you see anything? A hare ran across the road between your horse’s feet. It is fate.’ “‘Carmencita,’ I asked, ‘don’t you love me any more?’ “She gave me no answer, she was sitting cross-legged on a mat, making marks on the ground with her finger. “‘Let us change our life, Carmen,’ said I imploringly. ‘Let us go away and live somewhere we shall never be parted. You know we have a hundred and twenty gold ounces buried under an oak not far from here, and then we have more money with Ben-Joseph the Jew.’ “She began to smile, and then she said, ‘Me first, and then you. I know it will happen like that.’ “‘Think about it,’ said I. ‘I’ve come to the end of my patience and my courage. Make up your mind--or else I must make up mine.’ “I left her alone and walked toward the hermitage. I found the hermit praying. I waited till his prayer was finished. I longed to pray myself, but I couldn’t. When he rose up from his knees I went to him. “‘Father,’ I said, ‘will you pray for some one who is in great danger?’ “‘I pray for every one who is afflicted,’ he replied. “‘Can you say a mass for a soul which is perhaps about to go into the presence of its Maker?’ “‘Yes,’ he answered, looking hard at me. “And as there was something strange about me, he tried to make me talk. “‘It seems to me that I have seen you somewhere,’ said he. “I laid a piastre on his bench. “‘When shall you say the mass?’ said I. “‘In half an hour. The son of the innkeeper yonder is coming to serve it. Tell me, young man, haven’t you something on your conscience that is tormenting you? Will you listen to a Christian’s counsel?’