a fierce gesture.

"Mother of God," it cried, brokenly, "then if it must be so--tell
him--tell him that I am like Sarita!" and fell upon the altar steps
shuddering and sobbing like a beaten child.

[Illustration: Shuddering and sobbing like a beaten child 135]

CHAPTER IV.

And yet it was again weeks and weeks before she heard another word. In
those weeks there were times when she hated Jose because he never once
spoke of what she wished to hear. She could not speak herself--she could
not ask questions; she could only wait--hungry and desolate. They would
not even say--these people--whether he had gone to the King of America
or not; whether he was at the other end of the world, or whether he
was only in some other city. The truth was that Jose had innocently
cautioned the others against speaking of one whom Pepita disliked to
hear of.

"She does not like him," he said, sorrowfully. "Girls are like that
sometimes. It makes her angry when one talks of him."

But slow as he was, he could not help seeing in time that something was
wrong with Pepita. Sometimes she scarcely talked at all, and she did not
flame up when Jovita grumbled; it seemed as if she scarcely heard. Her
eyes had grown bigger, too, and there was a burning light in them. They
always appeared to be asking something; often he found himself obliged
to look up, and saw them fixed upon him, as if they meant to wrest
something from him. The careless bird-like look had gone, the careless
bird-like laughter and mocking. He began gradually to fancy she was
always thinking of something that hurt and excited her. But then there
was nothing. She had all she wanted. She had as many trinkets as the
other girls; she had even more. She had so little work to do that she
had sought some outside her home to fill her spare moments, and she
loved no one. There was not a man she knew who would not have come
if she had smiled. What, then, could it be? And how pretty she was!
Prettier than ever; prettier because of the burning look in her eyes,
and--and something else he could not explain; a kind of restless grace
of movement, as if she was always on the alert.

"Are you not pleased with Madrid any longer?" he asked her once.

"Yes," she answered.

"Do you want anything?"

"No."

"It seems to me," he said, slowly, and with much caution, "that you do
not amuse yourself as you did at first."

"It is not so new," she said; "but there is still pleasure enough." A