“Esteban,” she called, wildly, “come back! You have dropped your pocketbook.”
Again he did not look around, but she saw his hand go up to his side. He must have heard her.
She tried again. “Esteban, I wish to tell you something—something important.”
He would not turn. He did not turn until he heard a heavy splash in the river.
“That tiresome girl,”—and, choking an exclamation, he strode back to the bridge. She had jumped into the river to annoy him. No, she had not gone herself, she had sent the big black dog who was swimming composedly about. The fool—he would do anything she told him. She was in hiding herself,—he could see her brown head under one of the seats of the bridge.
The tired man flung himself down on the opposite seat, and fixed his eyes on the head. How brown, nay, how yellow it looked. He got up and peered down at it. It was not his little sweetheart curled up there. He was gazing at a bunch of yellow flowers.
He turned hastily to the river. There was her cap floating on the water. He became sick and faint. There had been only one splash, yet where was she? Every tender memory of his life, every ambition for the future, clustered around that brown head. He would go and get her. He would search in the grass of the river bank, he would—his head fell on his arm, and a strange, delicious forgetfulness crept over him. He was going to faint for the first time in his life. He struggled against it, first violently, then feebly, then his head fell on his breast and he knew no more.