egan to smile
and sing softly, as if to herself:

"Oh, bird at my window,
Sing but one song to me,
My lover who is light and gay."

"And more a woman," said Sebastiano. "It is women men want."

Pepita looked up and laughed; then she sang again:

"Who stirs the blossoms in the night,
Who breaks the orange flower."

Sebastiano made a swift movement and caught her wrists, his eyes
flashing fire.

"That is nothing," he said. "You are woman enough. The time will come.
It will not be always like this. You can be _made_ to love. Yes, you are
one of those who must be _made_. Then you will suffer too, and it will
be good for you. You will speak then."

He paused a moment, and held her arms a little apart, looking at her
with a sudden change to mournfulness.

"How pretty you are!" he said. "How little and how pretty! If you were
good and gentle, and one might touch your cheek softly or stroke your
hair, how one would love and serve you! No, you cannot move. I have not
fought bulls for nothing. If I let you move you will struggle and hurt
yourself. Listen. I am going away. I will trouble you no more now. I
will wait. If one waits long enough, pain ceases and one forgets. It
is so with a wound, why not with what one feels for a woman? I said you
could be _made_ to love; but let that be left for another man to do. I
want no love like that. I want a woman. Some day you will not cast the
_devisa_ under your feet. You will take it and hide it in your breast.
It will not be mine, but some other man's who loves you less. I loved
you, I was mad for you; but it shall cease. It is better to think only
of the bulls than to play the fool for a woman who has no love in her
heart. You are pretty, but that is not everything. You can work spells,
but a man can break through them. There! Go!"

He gave her one long look, flung her hands aside, and had vaulted the
wall and was gone himself one moment later.

Pepita stood still with clinched hands dropped at her side, staring with
wide fierce eyes down the white moonlit road.

The next evening Jose came home from his work later than usual. He came
down the road with a drooping head and a slow and heavy step. When he
sat down to his food he ate but little, and as he bent over his soup he
heard Jovita scolding.

"It is gone," she was saying. "You took it, and have thrown it away."

"Was it not mine?" said Pepita. "It was mine. I cared nothing for it,
and have