“And must you die—die in this desolate place?” I said, shuddering as his arms loosened and fell from around me.
“I like this best,” said Chaleco, rising to one elbow, and casting his glittering eyes around the room. “A Caloe count should not die in the sun’s light, while his people grovel in the dark earth. I am but a shadow now, Zana, fast melting away into dark nothingness; this place is fittest.”
“Not so, not so, my friend!” I cried, sobbing out the grief I most truly felt; “cast aside these terrible ideas of death—pray to God—let me pray for you. She will help us—Aurora, whom you loved, whom you shall surely see again.”
The gipsy began to revive again. The glances of his eyes burned into mine. His frame shook like a dead branch in winter.
“Zana, do you believe this?—do you believe that Aurora lives in—in—anywhere?”
“I do not believe—I know it, certainly as I know that the stars burn in heaven, or that the earth is solid under my feet.”
His eyes grew brighter and more eager. He turned over, grasping my hands between both his.
“Zana, how am I to reach her? What can I do? Tell me—tell me, before this coldness reaches my heart—tell me, Zana!”
“Pray—pray to God.”
“I do not know how,” he pleaded; “it is like grasping at mist. What shall I repeat?—which way must I turn?”