o stood in the shadow, ashamed.

"After all, there was no escape," she said firmly. "It was a dangerous
game and it could not end in any other way. Now I know that I cared for
you; that you are the only man for whom I can care."

Renovales was beside her. Their two forms made a single outline on the
bright background of the window, in a supreme embrace as though they
desired to take refuge in each other.

Her hands gently parted the heavy locks that hid the master's forehead.
She gazed at him rapturously. Then she kissed his lips with an endless
caress, whispering:

"Mariano, dear. I love you, I worship you. I will be your slave. Don't
ever leave me. I will seek you on my knees. You don't know how I will
care for you. You shall not escape me. You wanted it,--you ugly darling,
you big giant, my love."

V

One afternoon at the end of October, Renovales noticed that his friend
Cotoner was rather worried.

The master was jesting with him, making him tell about his labors as
restorer of paintings in the old church. He had come back fatter and
merrier, with a greasy, priestly luster. According to Renovales he had
brought back all the health of the clerics. The bishop's table with its
succulent abundance was a sweet memory for Cotoner. He extolled it and
described it, praising those good gentlemen who, like himself, lived
free from passion with no other voluptuousness in life than a refined
appetite. The master laughed at the thought of the simplicity of those
priests who in the afternoon, after the choir, formed a group around
Cotoner's scaffold, following the movements of his hands with wondering
eyes; at the respect of the attendants and other servants of the
episcopal palace, hanging on Don Jose's words, astonished to find such
modesty in an artist who was a friend of cardinals and had studied in
Rome.

When the master saw him so serious and silent that afternoon after
luncheon he wanted to know what was worrying him. Had they complained of
his restoration? Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was not
his affairs; he was worrying over Josephina's condition. Had he not
noticed her?

Renovales shrugged his shoulders. It was the usual trouble:
neurasthenia, diabetes, all those chronic ailments of which she did not
want to be cured, refusing to obey the physicians. She was thinner, but
her nerves seemed calmer; she cried less; she maintained a sad silence,
simply wanting to be alone and stay in a