The last day came. Early in the morning the Maestro called Vincente, and with his help put on the khaki, the leather puttees, the belt with its burden loose along the thigh. The pony, all saddled, was standing outside. He meant to slip out unnoticed. But once in the sala a sudden remorse detained him in hesitation. For the good of his soul, he knew he must not see her. And yet, it seemed black ingratitude, this sneaking departure. His eyes wandered over the table with a vague idea of leaving a written good-by---- A gliding swish behind him made him turn. She stood in the frame of the door, looking at him. She was wrapped in a loose gown, mauve-tinted, that stopped in a square before reaching the neck. Her hair fell in two braids behind her, leaving a haze of gold shimmering before the eyes; and her eyes shone through, calm, wondering, and blue. A vestige of pure, white sleep still hung about her cloyingly, and she was adorable. "You are going?" she asked--and the words floated slowly, as if held back by some indefinable regret. "Yes," he said; "I must go back." She stood looking slightly past him at something very far, into an infinity that was desolate; her eyes widened, purpled. "I shall be lonely," she said, impersonally, as if reading into that distance. He started a little. After a while he said, hesitatingly: "The troop are here now; the lieutenant----" But she stood there, very still, staring at the future, stretching long ahead as the past mirrored, the lone, inexorable future reflecting the lone, hard past. She moved forward a step, and that step was very weary. "I shall be lonely," she repeated. A tremulous wonder came into his eyes. But suddenly she had crumpled upon the long wicker chair, her face hidden in her arms, and her shoulders began to rise and fall softly. He stood there, stupefied, watching the gentle swell and ebb, and slowly the wonder in his eyes grew to the light ineffable. He moved forward. He touched her timidly. "Girl!" he said in awed murmur, as if in the hush of a cathedral, "Girl, can it be!" But she remained gently weeping. He took her arms and raised her slowly; and they stood before each other, their twined hands hanging loose between them, their eyes into each other's, gravely reading. "Girl!" he said again, and this time the tone held the ecstasy of revelation. "Boy!" she smiled back through the sacred dew of her tears. He drew her to him, and she wept upon his shoulder in sweet abandonment, and his heart swelled within him in immense tenderness. "Star of my Life!" he murmured. XV THE CALL