She threw herself into my arms.
“Oh, Zana, Zana, what shall I do? What will become of me?”
I folded her in my arms, and kissed the quivering whiteness of her forehead, till it became smooth again.
“Come with me, love—come to the good father who is pining to death for a sight of his darling.”
“Yes, I will go, Zana. I will never see him again—never, never. Oh, God help me—never!”
I could not avoid a throb of selfish joy as she said this; but grateful and relieved folded her closer in my arms.
“Come now,” she said, struggling to her feet; “take me away. Let him go to the house and find the room empty, perhaps—perhaps that will make him feel.”
She began to weep afresh, and fearing that she would sink to the earth again, I cast my arm around her. “Let me help support you, Cora.”
“Yes, yes, for I am a feeble creature, Zana, but stronger in some points than you think!”
We moved on through the larch groves, uttering broken sentences like these, half tears, half exclamations, till a sudden curve brought us close to Chaleco. His sylvan meal was ready, but neither of us could partake a morsel of it. With natural tact he did not urge us, but observed everything, doubtless making his own comments. We entered the boat, and without asking a question the gipsy rowed us toward the opposite shore.