China and Japan." He
caught Concha from her horse and strained her to him in the mounting
ardor of his plunge down the future. "You must resent nothing!" he
cried. "You must cease to be a Spanish woman when you become my wife,
and help me as only you can in those inevitable years I have mapped
out; and not so much for myself as for Russia. My enemies have sought
to persuade three sovereigns that I am a visionary, but I have already
accomplished much that met with resentment and ridicule when I broached
it. And I know my powers! I tingle with the knowledge of my ability
to carry to a conclusion every plan I have thought worth the holding
when the ardor of conception was over. I swear to you that death
alone--and I believe that nothing is further aloof--shall prevent my
giving this country to Russia before five years have passed, and within
another brief span the trade of China and Japan. It is a glorious
destiny for a man--one man!--to pass into history as the Russian of his
century who has done most to add to the extent and the wealth and the
power of his empire! Does that sound vainglorious, and do you resent
it? You must not, I tell you, you must not!"

Concha had never seen him in such a mood. Although he held her so
closely that the horses were angrily biting each other, she felt that
for once there was nothing personal in his ardor. His eyes were
blazing, but they stared as if a great and prophetic panorama had risen
in this silent wood, where the long faded moss hung as motionless as if
by those quiet waters that even the most ardent must cross in his time.
She felt his heart beat as she had felt it before against her soft
breast, but she knew that if he thought of her at all it was but as a
part of himself, not as the woman he impatiently desired. But she was
sensible of no resentment, either for herself or her race, which,
indeed, she knew to be but a wayfarer in the wilderness engaged in a
brief chimerical enterprise. For the first time she felt her
individuality melt into, commingle with his: and when he lowered his
gaze, still with that intensity of vision piercing the future, her own
eyes reflected the impersonalities of his; and in time he saw it.

XXIV

"We should all wear black for so mournful an occasion," said Rafaella
Sal, spreading out her scarlet skirts.

"Father Abella is right. The occasion is sad enough without giving it
the air of a funeral."

"Sad! Dios de mi alma! Will