She watched the graceful girls of the wealthy class flit to and fro on the long corridors of the houses, or sweep the strings of the guitar behind their gratings as the caballeros passed. Watchful old women were always near them, their ears alert for every word. La Pérdida thanked God that she had had no dueña.
One night, on her way home, she passed the long low prison where her lover was confined. The large crystal moon flooded the red-tiled roof projecting over the deep windows and the shallow cells. The light sweet music of a guitar floated through iron bars, and a warm voice sang:—
"Adios, adios, de ti al ausentarme,
Para ir en poz de mi fatal estrella,
Yo llevo grabada tu imagen bella,
Aqui en mi palpitante corazon.
"Pero aunque lejos de tu lado me halle
No olvides, no, que por tu amor deliro
Enviáme siquiera un suspiro,
Que dé consuelo, a mi alma en su dolor.
"Y de tu pecho la emoción sentida
Llegue hasta herir mi lacerado oido,
Y arranque de mi pecho dolorido
Un eco que repita, adios! adios!"
La Pérdida's blood leaped through her body. Her aimless hands struck the spiked surface of a cactus-bush, but she never knew it. When the song finished, she crept to the grating and looked in.
"Carlos!" she whispered.
A man who lay on the straw at the back of the cell sprang to his feet and came forward.
"My little one!" he said. "I knew that song would bring thee. I begged them for a guitar, then to be put into a front cell." He forced his hands through the bars and gave her life again with his strong warm clasp.
"Come out," she said.