In his stained clothing, in his pitiful weakness Nacha read his tragic story at a glance. Here was a sick man! His eyes had lost the keenness they once possessed. They were faded and glazed, apparently incapable of concentrating on any object.
As the car crossed the Avenida de Mayo a fellow of very ordinary appearance, apparently a rustic, came up to Nacha and touched her on the shoulder. She introduced him to Monsalvat.
"We are to be married soon," she said. "I met him in the boarding house where I live. We are going to the country, to his ranch—"
Nacha's fiancé was looking at Monsalvat with evident mistrust, and showed his impatience to get off the car.
"Where do you live?" asked Nacha, as they were leaving.
"Where do I live?" he exclaimed, as though that were the most singular of inquiries.
Then he grew pale again; and again his hands began to tremble.
"I want you to be a witness at our marriage," she pleaded as she pressed his hand with a tenderness he could not remember ever to have felt before.
"Come, come, we must be going!" the fiancé protested with ill-concealed annoyance.
"You can't refuse, Monsalvat. Please! Be good to me for this last time—Tell me where you live!"