Pepita was alone. When our glances met, when we saluted each other, we both turned red. We shook hands with timidity and in silence.
I did not press her hand, nor did she press mine, but for a moment we held them clasped together.
In Pepita's glance, as she looked at me, there was nothing of love; there was only friendship, sympathy, and a profound sadness.
She had divined the whole of my inward struggle; she was persuaded that divine love had triumphed in my soul; that my resolution not to love her was firm and invincible.
She did not venture to complain of me; she had no reason to complain of me; she knew that right was on my side. A sigh, scarcely perceptible, that escaped from her dewy, parted lips, revealed to me the depth of her sorrow.
Her hand still lay in mine; we were both silent. How say to her that she was not destined for me, nor I for her; that we must part forever?
But, though my lips refused to tell her this in words, I told it to her with my eyes; my severe glance confirmed her fears; it convinced her of the irrevocableness of my decision.
All at once her gaze was troubled; her lovely countenance, pale with a translucent pallor, was contracted with a touching expression of melancholy. She looked like Our Lady of Sorrows. Two tears rose slowly to her eyes, and began to steal down her cheeks.
I know not what passed within me—and how describe it, even if I knew?
I bent toward her to kiss away her tears, and our lips met in a kiss.