He put his hand up and rubbed his forehead violently. Then he let it drop.
“I shall not ask,” he said. “You would do no wrong. You are a good girl; but—”
“You think I have gone mad,” she said, with a sudden change of voice and a piteous little shiver. “Who knows? Perhaps some one has cast the evil-eye upon me. But I have done no harm, and I shall do none.”
“No,” he said, rather stupidly. “You would do no harm. Let us go in, then.”
And without another word they went into the house, Pepita to her bed to be awake and gaze at the darkness, José to sit with his head in his hands and thinking a thousand wild thoughts until he fell asleep.
He could not know that where he had been she had been also; that when the snatches of song had been sung she had heard them; that when the people had talked of Sebastiano she had listened; that when Sebastiano had stood in the bright light she had stood in the shadow and watched. She had not thought of danger or of being discovered. She had only thought of one thing and listened for one thing—and once she had heard this thing discussed by some chattering young chulos.
“She is a pretty young girl,” they said. “Not as pretty as that other, but handsome enough. She was a little devil, that other. But it is a mistake for a man like him to marry. How can a man feel free to risk his life gayly when he has a woman hung about his neck?”
“He will not,” she whispered, growing hot all over. “No, he has not forgotten. I have given the little heart and the flowers and candles. And he could not forget while I—He will come back.”