They were all ready now,—Ramona on Baba, the two packed nets swinging from her saddle, one on either side. Alessandro, walking, led his tired pony. It was a sad sort of procession for one going to be wed, but Ramona's heart was full of joy.
“I don't know why it is, Alessandro,” she said; “I should think I would be afraid, but I have not the least fear,—not the least; not of anything that can come, Alessandro,” she reiterated with emphasis. “Is it not strange?”
“Yes, Senorita,” he replied solemnly, laying his hand on hers as he walked close at her side. “It is strange. I am afraid,—afraid for you, my Senorita! But it is done, and we will not go back; and perhaps the saints will help you, and will let me take care of you. They must love you, Senorita; but they do not love me, nor my people.”
“Are you never going to call me by my name?” asked Ramona. “I hate your calling me Senorita. That was what the Senora always called me when she was displeased.”
“I will never speak the word again!” cried Alessandro. “The saints forbid I should speak to you in the words of that woman!”
“Can't you say Ramona?” she asked.
Alessandro hesitated. He could not have told why it seemed to him difficult to say Ramona.
“What was that other name, you said you always thought of me by?” she continued. “The Indian name,—the name of the dove?”
“Majel,” he said. “It is by that name I have oftenest thought of you since the night I watched all night for you, after you had kissed me, and two wood-doves were calling and answering each other in the dark; and I said to myself, that is what my love is like, the wood-dove: the wood-dove's voice is low like hers, and sweeter than any other sound in the earth; and the wood-dove is true to one mate always—” He stopped.
“As I to you, Alessandro,” said Ramona, leaning from her horse, and resting her hand on Alessandro's shoulder.