he went to him again, clinging to him, sobbing in hysteric fear, as if
she were surrounded by dangers.

"Master, you are all I have; you are my life! You won't ever leave me,
will you? You will always be my brother?"

Renovales, bewildered at the unexpectedness of this scene, at the
submission of that woman who had always repelled him and now suddenly
clung to him, unable to stand unless her arms were clasped about his
neck, tried to free himself from her arms.

After the first surprise, the old coldness came over him. He was
irritated at this proud despair that was another's work.

The woman he had longed for, the woman of his dreams came to him, seemed
to give herself to him with hysteric sobs, eager to overwhelm him,
perhaps without realizing what she was doing in the thoughtlessness of
her abnormal state; but he pushed her back, with sudden terror,
hesitating and timid in the face of the deed, pained that the
realization of his dreams came, not voluntarily but under the influence
of disappointment and desertion.

Concha pressed close to him, eager to feel the protection of his
powerful body.

"Master! My friend! You won't leave me! You are so good!"

And closing her eyes that no longer wept, she kissed his strong neck,
and looked up with her eyes still moist, seeking his face in the shadow.
They could hardly see each other; the room was dim with mysterious
twilight,--all its objects indistinct as in a dream, the dangerous hour
that had attracted them for the first time in the seclusion of the
studio.

Suddenly she drew away in terror, fleeing from him, taking refuge in the
gloom, pursued by his eager hands.

"No, not that. We'll be sorry for it! Friends! Nothing more than friends
and always!"

Her voice, as she said this, was sincere, but weak, faint, the voice of
a victim who resists and has not the strength to defend himself.

When the painter awakened it was night. The light from the street lamps
shone through the window with a distant, reddish glow.

He shivered with a sensation of cold, as if he were emerging from under
an enticing wave where he had lain, he could not remember how long. He
felt weak, humiliated, with the anxiety of a child who has done
something wrong.

Concha was sobbing. What folly! It had been against her will; she knew
they would be sorry for it. But she was the first to recover her
calmness. Her outline rose on the bright background of the window. She
called the painter wh