d in her hands, her hair
unbound, her dress disordered, she continued to sigh and moan.

She might have remained thus for an indefinite time if Antonona had not
come to her. Antonona had heard her sobs from without and hurried to her
apartment. When she saw her mistress extended on the floor, Antonona
gave way to a thousand extravagant expressions of fury.

"Here's a pretty sight!" she cried; "that sneak, that blackguard, that
old fool, what a way he has to console his friends! I shouldn't wonder
if he has committed some piece of barbarity--given a couple of kicks to
this poor child, perhaps; and now I suppose he has gone back to the
church to get everything ready to sing the funeral chant, and sprinkle
her with hyssop, and bury her out of sight without more ado."

Antonona was about forty, and a hard worker--energetic, and stronger
than many a laborer. She often lifted up, with scarcely more than the
strength of her hand, a skin of oil or of wine, weighing nearly ninety
pounds, and placed it on the back of a mule, or carried a bag of wheat
up to the garret where the grain was kept. Although Pepita was not a
feather, Antonona now lifted her up in her arms from the floor as if she
had been one, and placed her carefully on the sofa, as though she were
some delicate and precious piece of porcelain that she feared to break.

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked Antonona. "I wager anything
that drone of a vicar has been preaching you a sermon as bitter as
aloes, and has left you now with your heart torn to pieces with grief."

Pepita continued to weep and sob without answering.

"Come, leave off crying, and tell me what is the matter. What has the
vicar said to you?"

"He said nothing that could offend me," finally answered Pepita.

Then, seeing that Antonona was waiting anxiously to hear her speak, and
feeling the need of unburdening herself to some one who could sympathize
more fully with her, and, humanly speaking, could better comprehend her
than the vicar, Pepita spoke as follows:

"The reverend vicar has admonished me gently to repent of my sins; to
allow Don Luis to go away; to rejoice at his departure; to forget him. I
have said yes to everything; I have promised him to rejoice at Don
Luis's departure; I have tried to forget him, and even to hate him. But
look you, Antonona, I can not; it is an undertaking superior to my
strength. While the vicar was here, I thought I had strength for
everything; but no