She struggled with the passionate persistence of a child. Since she would not give him up, he was hers.
But she did not know what to do. There was nothing but to wait in this fever of strange misery and unrest, which grew more cruel every day; and at the bull-fight if he would only look—perhaps—yes, if he saw her face, he would understand and come.
In the days before the great entertainment took place she was like some little savage creature at bay. She could scarcely bear to hear the voices of those who spoke to her. Once she went into the church and threw herself upon her knees as usual, but when she looked up her eyes were fierce.
“If he does not come,” she cried to the waxen Virgin, “I will pray to you no more—no more.”
She knew that it was blasphemy, but she did not care; and before she went home she bought a sharp little knife and hid it in her breast.
“This,” she whispered, “this—if it is true about the girl from Lisbon; but it is not true.”
For many years afterward the day of the great bull-fight was remembered. No one who saw it forgot it as long as he lived. Affairs used to date from it in the minds of many.
A year had passed since that first brilliant day when Pepita had gone forth in her first festal dress. She remembered it all as she dressed herself on this other morning. The same day seemed to have come again; the same sunshine and deep blue sky. There were the same flowers nodding their heads; Jovita was grumbling a little in her haste, just as she had done then; and in the looking-glass there was the same little figure in the bright attire—the soft black hair, the red rose, the red mouth. As she looked, a sudden triumph made her radiant.
“I have not grown ugly,” she said.
No, she had not grown ugly. She was too young and strong for that, and excitement had flushed her into new brilliance.