She spoke as calmly as a frightened child; sad and hesitating. If he had taken her in his arms she would have sobbed her grief away there.
But Robert Worth was at that hour possessed by two master passions, tyrannical and insatiable—they would take notice of nothing that did not minister to them.
“Maria, they have taken my arms from me. Cowards! Cowards! Miserable cowards! I refused to give them up! They held my hands and robbed me—robbed me of my manhood and honor! I begged them to shoot me ere they did it, and they spoke courteously and regretted this, and hoped that, till I felt that it would be a joy to strangle them.”
“Roberto! Mi Roberto! You have me!”
“I want my rifle and all it represents. I want myself back again. Maria, Maria, until then, I am not worthy to be any good woman’s husband!”
“Roberto, dearest! It is not your fault.”
“It is my fault. I have waited too long. My sons showed me my duty—my soul urged me to do it. I deserve the shame, but I will wipe it out with crimson blood.”
The Senora stood speechless, wringing her hands. Her own passion was puny beside the sternness, the reality, and the intensity of the quiet rage before her. She was completely mastered by it. She forgot all but the evident agony she could neither mistake nor console.
“I have come to say ‘farewell,’ Maria. We have been very happy together—Maria—our children—dearest—”
“Oh, Roberto! My husband! My soul! My life! Leave me not.”