As for her, slumbering years and crowding vicissitude had put in the background, but had not quenched, the affection for her girlhood lover.
The years passed under review.
They spoke of the parting in the castle of her father, the Ambassador Altamira, of Castile.
"Colonel," she said, a faint blush creeping into her faded cheek, "had I listened one moment more to you that day, I would have fled to your arms, and have left with you for California, though my father's heart had broken."
A surprised exclamation was Mendoza's reply.
"You rode furiously down the avenue. At the bend, in the shadow of those old oaks, you stopped, reining your horse about. I can still see you there. I hastened to the door to welcome you, thinking you were about to return. My father bade me within, but I obeyed not. I remained at the door. I beckoned you. My father made a scene. Nevertheless, once more I beckoned. I thought you saw, but you galloped away."
"I saw you not. Grief flooded my eyes. Castle Altamira, your home, and hallowed by our courtship, had been to me as a shrine.
"On this Pacific shore I had built another Castle Altamira, laying the foundation and rearing the walls in love. It embodied my devotion to you. In the shadow of those oaks, as I rode away, my heart was gone from me, for the castle in Castile was become but building stone, the doña of the hearth mine no longer. The new home in this western world, lacking the cement of love, was worthless, and must fall in ruins. Had I seen you beckoning—" agitation breaking the sentence.
"You would have returned, José?"
"Yes, Lady Romalda, yes; though many forbidding ambassador-fathers barred the way," smiling. "But, señora, your father's intensity of feeling seemed equaled by your own."