n!"

And in response to Aguirre's bewildered glance she added, sadly, "You
already know. I don't hide it.... Twenty-two years old. Many of my race
marry at fourteen."

Her resignation was sincere; it was the resignation of the Oriental
woman, accustomed to behold youth only in the bud of adolescence.

"Often I find it impossible to explain your love for me. I feel so proud
of you!... My cousins, to vex me, try to find defects in you, and
can't!... No, they can't! The other day you passed by my house and I was
behind the window-blinds with Miriam, who was my nurse; she's a Jewess
from Morocco, one of those who wear kerchiefs and wrappers. 'Look,
Miriam, at that handsome chap, who belongs to our neighborhood.' Miriam
looked. 'A Jew? No. That can't be. He walks erect, with a firm step, and
our men walk haltingly, with their legs doubled as if they were about to
kneel. He has teeth like a wolf and eyes like daggers. He doesn't lower
his head nor his gaze.' And that's how you are. Miriam was right. You
stand out from among all the young men of my blood. Not that they lack
courage; there are some as strong as the Maccabees; Massena, Napoleon's
companion, was one of us, but the natural attitude of them all, before
they are transformed by anger, is one of humility and submission. We
have been persecuted so much!... You have grown up in a different
environment."

Afterwards the young woman seemed to regret her words. She was a bad
Jewess; she scarcely had any faith in her beliefs and in her people; she
went to the synagogue only on the Day of Atonement and on the occasion
of other solemn, unavoidable ceremonies.

"I believe that I've been waiting for you forever. Now I am sure that I
knew you long before seeing you. When I saw you for the first time, on
that day during the Feast of the Tabernacles, I felt that something
grave and decisive had occurred in my life. When I learned who you were,
I became your slave and hungered anxiously for your first word."

Ah, Spain!... She was like old Aboab; her thoughts had often flown to
the beautiful land of her forefathers, wrapped in mystery. At times she
recalled it only to hate it, as one hates a beloved person, for his
betrayals and his cruelties, without ceasing to love him. At others, she
called to mind with delight the tales she had heard from her
grandmother's lips, the songs with which she had been lulled to sleep as
a child,--all the legends of the old Castilian land, abode