Then Ricardo began to sigh and groan.
"No, Maria, you do not love me; you love Manolito Lopez."
"Come, Ricardo mio, don't talk nonsense. How could I love this urchin?"
"Have you not just married him?"
"You must be dreaming; don't say any more absurd things.... Wake up, man—wake up ... or wait a little, I am going to wake you. But see in what a sweet way!"
And in fact, the beautiful nun came even closer still, and took his face between her dainty hands with an affectionate gesture. Then she brought her own close to his slowly, and gave him a warm and prolonged kiss on the brow.
Oh! wonderful chance! Ricardo noticed with amazement, that just as she gave him the caress, Maria's face had suddenly changed into Marta's. Yes; it was her bright black eyes; her fresh rosy cheeks; her dark hair falling in ringlets around her brow. But her face seemed so sad and mournful that he could not do less than cry,—
"Marta, Marta! what ails thee?"
And the very cry that he made awoke him.
Marta still sat in the low chair beside the window, apparently absorbed in her work. And nevertheless, the young man, though awake, was sure that he had cried out. All that had passed was a dream; but neither the cry nor the warm, moist lips which he felt imprinted on his brow were imaginary; though he were killed, he could not be convinced of it.