Hours passed. The pleasures of the table ended, and dancing followed. Her little candle burned out, but the maiden lay quietly on the floor, the rays of moonlight shining upon her at the foot of an image of the Mother of Jesus.
Gradually the noises in the house died away, the lights were put out, and Aunt Isabel again knocked at the door of her room.
“Let us leave her; she is sleeping,” said her aunt. “At her age, with nothing to trouble her, she sleeps like a corpse.”
When all was again silent, Maria arose slowly and glanced around her. She saw the azotea and the small climbing plants bathed in the melancholy light of the moon.
“A peaceful future! Sleeping like a corpse!” she murmured in a low voice, and turned toward the azotea.
The city was quiet. Only the noise of an occasional carriage passing over the wooden bridge could be heard in the stillness of the night, while the tranquil waters of the river were reflecting the moonlight.
The maiden raised her eyes to the pure, sapphire-colored sky. Slowly she took off her rings, her hair-combs, her earrings, and her breast-pin, and placing them upon the balustrade of the azotea she looked out toward the river.
A banca, loaded with rice grass, stopped at the foot of the landing on the bank of the river at the rear of the house. One of the two men who were propelling the boat went up the stone steps, leaped over the wall, and a few seconds afterward, steps were heard coming up the azotea.
Maria Clara saw him stop on discovering her, but it was for only a moment. The man advanced slowly and at about three steps from the maiden, stopped again. Maria Clara stepped back.
“Crisostomo!” she gasped, full of terror.