So mused Don Ruis. He had reached her door, and, as before, at the noise of hoofs she came out with a welcome.
"Ah, Ruis," she murmured, "I have watched for you the entire day. This morning I went to our Eden, and again this afternoon. Where were you? Ruis, I caught a butterfly, it was like a winged acacia, and I gathered the jasmines you like, and waited, but you did not come. My Ruis, I thought you ill perhaps, yet everything was so fair and still I knew you could not be but well. And, Ruis, as I was leaving, a yellow-breast began to sing. He seemed to bring a message from you. I know it now, it was that you would come to-night. Ruis, forgive my foolish words, it is because my heart is full of love for you. But why do you not dismount? Come, we will stroll there beneath the stars. Do you know, Ruis, with you I am so happy there are moments when I could die of joy. But why do you not speak to me? Is it the night? My Ruis, your face seems changed."
"Fausta, I have come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye? Ruis, you jest."
"No, Fausta, it is not jest. Don Jayme and I return to Spain."
"To Spain! It cannot be! You said that when you went, we both should go; that I should be your wife."
"Don Jayme has found another for me."
"And what of your word, Don Ruis?"
"There, Fausta, it is painful enough. Were it not for Don Jayme, you know—naturally, you know—you know very well what I would do. But see, what would you? It is painful, indeed."
"Painful? Painful to whom? Not to Don Jayme, nor seemingly to you."