“My name is Harker.”
“Harker. What does that mean?”
“I do not know: perhaps ‘one who listens.’ ”
“Listens for what?”
“What do people listen for?”
“The sea wind in the heat,” she said thoughtfully; “and the crowing of the cock in the night of pain; and, in life, the footstep of the beloved who never comes; or when he does come, goes on the instant.”
“Good-bye.”
“What do you listen for?” she cried.
“A change of wind, perhaps. Adios.”
He turned from her rapidly, but as he turned she knelt suddenly at his side, snatched his hand and kissed it. “Thank you,” he said, “but men are not worthy of that, señora.” He withdrew his hand and hobbled a few steps away. At this little distance, he called: “I thank you, señora; good night.”