"The other morning, as I left your official sitting room in San José, the King's Highway to Monterey became another road to Damascus. The scales fell from my eyes, as they did from Saul of Tarsus. I cursed myself for the lie to which I had sworn in the sanctuary of my soul—the lie making you, Alfredo Morando, the personification of my ideal.
"I lashed my horse. I wished—I even prayed—that the beast might spring to the rocky depths of the cañon at my side, that I might find release in the parting of my body and its soul."
"Señora Valentino, the artist sometimes so arranges the lights and shades on his sitter that he brings in relief certain lineaments to the obscuring of others, producing, often, a fancy picture rather than a portrait. Your delineation of my character, emphasizing certain points, neglecting others, seems to be hardly fair. But, doña, I scorn the pleader's place. I admit my unworthiness. Your word, then—is final?" arising and taking up his cap, dignity vesting speech and manner.
"Yes, Alfredo, final—final. Go, continue to be a comandante-protector of sheep. Gallop across the plains to Mission San José. Improvise dawdling love-songs, twangle the guitar, and strut about by the light of the moon. The Señorita de la Mendoza may again dance El Son, to bring you to her side. No longer will I keep you from her, with the vain hope that, in the capitals of the nations, you and I, uniting our mentalities and working hand in hand, might have no small part in the history-making of our generation. Good-by, Alfredo." She extended her hand.
"Good-by, Silvia."
He opened the door and hesitated at the threshold.
"Señora, once more, is it final?"
The color faded from her face. Her features set in emotionless expression.
"Yes, Alfredo—yes."
******