“From no selfish motives,” I said, troubled, as if all the great incertitude of my mind had been awakened by the sound that brought so much delight to my heart. “My valour is nothing.” “It has given me a new courage,” she said. “You did not want more,” I said earnestly. “Ah! I was very much alone. It is difficult to------” She hesitated. “To live alone,” I finished. “More so to die,” she whispered, with a new note of timidity. “It is frightful. Be cautious, Don Juan, for the love of God, because I could not------” We stopped. La Chica, silent, as if exhausted, drooped lamentably, with her shoulder against the wall, by Seraphina’s door; and the pure crystalline sound of the fountain below, enveloping the parting pause, seemed to wind its coldness round my heart. “Poor Don Carlos!” she said. “I had a great affection for him. I was afraid they would want me to marry him. He loved your sister.” “He never told her,” I murmured. “I wonder if she ever guessed.” “He was poor, homeless, ill already, in a foreign land.” “We all loved him at home,” I said. “He never asked her,” she breathed out. “And, perhaps--but he never asked her.” “I have no more force,” sighed La Chica, suddenly, and sank down at the foot of the wall, putting the candlesticks on the floor. “You have been very good to him,” I said; “only he need not have demanded this from you. Of course, I understood perfectly.... I hope you understand, too, that I------” “Señor, my cousin,” she flashed out suddenly, “do you think that I would have consented only from my affection for him?” “Señorita,” I cried, “I am poor, homeless, in a foreign land. How can I believe? How can I dare to dream?--unless your own voice------” “Then you are permitted to ask. Ask, Don Juan.” I dropped on one knee, and, suddenly extending her arm, she pressed her hand to my lips. Lighted up from below, the picturesque aspect of her figure took on something of a transcendental grace; the unusual upward shadows invested her beauty with a new mystery of fascination. A minute passed. I could hear her rapid breathing above, and I stood up before her, holding both her hands. “How very few days have we been together,” she whispered. “Juan, I am ashamed.” “I did not count the days. I have known you always. I have dreamed of you since I can remember--for days, for months, a year, all my life.” The crash of a heavy door flung to, exploded, filling the galleries all round the _patio_ with the sonorous reminder of our peril. “Ah! We had forgotten.” I heard her voice, and felt her form in my arms. Her lips at my ear pronounced: “Remember, Juan. Two lives, but one death only.” And she was gone so quickly that it was as though she had passed through the wood of the massive panels.