ut before he could interrupt her, take
advantage of the retreating voices that left them alone at last, she
had drawn herself up and moved a step away. "Do not think, however,"
she said proudly, "that I am really as weak and silly as that. It was
only a mood. Should you not return I should grieve, yes; and should I
live as long as is common with my race, still would my heart remain
young with your image, and with the fidelity that would be no less a
religion than that of my church. But I should not live a selfish life,
or I should be unworthy of my election to experience a great and
eternal passion. Memory and the life of the imagination would be my
solace, possibly in time my happiness, but my days I should give to
this poor little world of ours; and all that one mortal, and that a
woman, has to bestow upon a stranded and benighted people. It may not
be much, but I make you that promise, senor, that you will not think me
a foolish, romantic girl, unworthy of the great responsibilities you
have offered me."

"Concha!" He was deeply moved, and at the same time her words chilled
him with subtle prophecy, sank into some unexplored depth of his
consciousness, meeting response as subtle, filling him with impatience
at the mortality of man. He glanced over his shoulder, then took her
recklessly in his arms.

"Is it possible you doubt I will come back?" he demanded. "My faith?"

"No, not that. But such happiness seems to me too great for this life."

He remembered how often he had been close to death; he knew that during
the greater part of the next two years he should see the glimmer of the
scythe oftener yet. For a moment it seemed to him that he felt the
dark waters rise in his soul, heard the jeers of the gods at the vanity
of mortal will. But the blood ran strong and warm in his veins. He
shook off the obsession, and smiled a little cynically, even as he
kissed her.

"This is the hour for romance, my dear. In the years to come, when you
are very prosaically my wife with a thousand duties, and grumbling at
my exactions, your consolation will be the memory of some moment like
this, when you were able to feel romantic and sad. I wish I could
arrange for some such set of memories for myself, but I am unequal to
your divine melancholy. When I cannot see you I am cross and sulky;
and just now--I am, well--philosophically happy. Some day I shall be
happier, but this is well enough. And I can harbor no ugly