Ramona flew, rather
than ran. In a moment more, Alessandro had heard the light steps,
turned, saw Ramona, and, with a cry, bounded forward, and they were
clasped in each other's arms before they had looked in each other's
faces. Ramona spoke first. Disengaging herself gently, and looking
up, she began: "Alessandro--" But at the first sight of his face she
shrieked. Was this Alessandro, this haggard, emaciated, speechless man,
who gazed at her with hollow eyes, full of misery, and no joy! "O God,"
cried Ramona, "You have been ill! you are ill! My God, Alessandro, what
is it?"

Alessandro passed his hand slowly over his forehead, as if trying to
collect his thoughts before speaking, all the while keeping his eyes
fixed on Ramona, with the same anguished look, convulsively holding both
her hands in his.

"Senorita," he said, "my Senorita!" Then he stopped. His tongue seemed
to refuse him utterance; and this voice,--this strange, hard, unresonant
voice,--whose voice was it? Not Alessandro's.

"My Senorita," he began again, "I could not go without one sight of your
face; but when I was here, I had not courage to go near the house. If
you had not come, I should have gone back without seeing you."

Ramona heard these words in fast-deepening terror, What did they mean?
Her look seemed to suggest a new thought to Alessandro.

"Heavens, Senorita!" he cried, "have you not heard? Do you not know what
has happened?"

"I know nothing, love," answered Ramona. "I have heard nothing since
you went away. For ten days I have been sure you were dead; but to-night
something told me that you were near, and I came to meet you."

At the first words of Ramona's sentence, Alessandro threw his arms
around her again. As she said "love," his whole frame shook with
emotion.

"My Senorita!" he whispered, "my Senorita! how shall I tell you! How
shall I tell you!"

"What is there to tell, Alessandro?" she said. "I am afraid of nothing,
now that you are here, and not dead, as I thought."

But Alessandro did not speak. It seemed impossible. At last, straining
her closer to his breast, he cried: "Dearest Senorita! I feel as if
I should die when I tell you,--I have no home; my father is dead;
my people are driven out of their village. I am only a beggar now,
Senorita; like those you used to feed and pity in Los Angeles convent!"
As he spoke the last words, he reeled, and, supporting himself against
the tree, added: "I am not strong, Senorita;