Gaspar Ruiz saw the girl open her eyes. The raising of her eyelids seemed to recall him from a trance. They were alone; the cries of terror and distress from homeless people filled the plains of the coast, remote and immense, coming like a whisper into their loneliness. She rose swiftly to her feet, darting fearful glances on all sides. “What is it?” she cried out low, and peering into his face. “Where am I?” He bowed his head sadly, without a word. “... Who are you?” He knelt down slowly before her, and touched the hem of her coarse black baize skirt. “Your slave,” he said. She caught sight then of the heap of rubbish that had been the house, all misty in the cloud of dust. “Ah!” she cried, pressing her hand to her forehead. “I carried you out from there,” he whispered at her feet. “And they?” she asked in a great sob. He rose, and taking her by the arms, led her gently towards the shapeless ruin half overwhelmed by a land-slide. “Come and listen,” he said. The serene moon saw them clambering over that heap of stones, joists and tiles, which was a grave. They pressed their ears to the interstices, listening for the sound of a groan, for a sigh of pain. At last he said, “They died swiftly. You are alone.” She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put one arm across her face. He waited--then, approaching his lips to her ear, “Let us go,” he whispered. “Never--never from here,” she cried out, flinging her arms above her head. He stooped over her, and her raised arms fell upon his shoulders. He lifted her up, steadied himself and began to walk, looking straight before him. “What are you doing?” she asked feebly. “I am escaping from my enemies,” he said, never once glancing at his light burden. “With me?” she sighed helplessly. “Never without you,” he said. “You are my strength.” He pressed her close to him. His face was grave and his footsteps steady. The conflagrations bursting out in the ruins of destroyed villages dotted the plain with red fires; and the sounds of distant lamentations, the cries of “Misericordia! Misericordia!” made a desolate murmur in his ears. He walked on, solemn and collected, as if carrying something holy, fragile and precious. The earth rocked at times under his feet. IX WITH movements of mechanical care and an air of abstraction old General Santierra lighted a long and thick cigar.