“God,” she murmured faintly, “God is more powerful than you or I or any one. I will ask Him to protect me and He will do it; He must do it; He will do it, He will do it.”
“No,” responded Artegui energetically. “I know that you will come, that you will fall, as the stone falls, drawn by its own weight, into this abyss or this heaven; you will come. See, I am so certain of this, that you need not fear now that I shall kill myself. I will not die because I know that one day you will inevitably come to me; and on that day—which will arrive—I wish to be still in the world that I may open my arms to you thus.”
Had not Lucía’s back been turned to the light, Artegui must have perceived the joy that diffused itself over her countenance, and the swift glance of gratitude she raised to heaven. He waited with outstretched arms. Lucía bowed her form, and, swift as the swallow that skims the crest of the waves in its flight across the seas, rushed toward him, and rested her head for an instant on his shoulder.
Then, and no less swiftly, she went toward the table, and taking from it the candlestick handed it to him and said in a firm and tranquil voice:
“Show me the way out.”
Artegui led the way without uttering a word. His blood had suddenly cooled, and after the terrible crisis his habitual weariness and melancholy were greater than before. They passed through his room and entered the corridor in silence. In the corridor Lucía turned her head for an instant and fixed her eyes on Artegui’s countenance as if she wished to engrave his image in indelible characters on her memory. The light of the candle fell full upon it, bringing it out in strong relief against the dark background of the embossed leather that covered the walls. It was a handsome face; handsomer, even, from its expression and character than from the regularity of its features. The blackness of the beard contrasted with its interesting pallor, and its air of dejection made it resemble those dead faces of John the Baptist, so vigorous in chiaroscuro, produced by our national tragic school of painting. Artegui returned Lucía’s gaze with one so full of pain and pity that she could bear her feelings no longer, and ran to the door. At the threshold Artegui looked down into the dark recesses of the garden.
“Shall I accompany you?” he said.
“Do not advance a step. Put out the light, and close the door.”
Artegui obeyed the first command; but, before executing the second, he murmured in Lucía’s ear:
“In Bayonne you once said to me, ‘Are you going to leave me alone?’ It is my turn to ask you the same question now. Remain. There is still time. Have pity on me and on yourself.”