“Never?” said José, staring. “That is impossible!”
“It is true,” answered Carlos. “And they are rich, and like new things; and the king has spoken of sending for Sebastiano. He will be rich enough to build a palace for his old age.”
A few days later, in the dusk of the evening, there crept into the church a little figure familiar to the painted saints and the waxen Virgin. But to-day it wore a changed aspect. It moved slowly at first, reluctantly; the brilliant little face was pale; the eyes wild with torture. A moment it stood before the altar, and then flung up its arms with a fierce gesture.
“Mother of God,” it cried, brokenly, “then if it must be so—tell him—tell him that I am like Sarita!” and fell upon the altar steps shuddering and sobbing like a beaten child.
CHAPTER IV.
And yet it was again weeks and weeks before she heard another word. In those weeks there were times when she hated José because he never once spoke of what she wished to hear. She could not speak herself—she could not ask questions; she could only wait—hungry and desolate. They would not even say—these people—whether he had gone to the King of America or not; whether he was at the other end of the world, or whether he was only in some other city. The truth was that José had innocently cautioned the others against speaking of one whom Pepita disliked to hear of.
“She does not like him,” he said, sorrowfully. “Girls are like that sometimes. It makes her angry when one talks of him.”