I drew her gently in the direction of my room, persuaded that I had quieted for a time her moody fears.
"No! no!" she cried, bursting away from me; "I can not sleep. I will never sleep again."
She rushed, passionately, through the open door into the moonlight. In her bare feet, clad only in her flowing nightgown, she stood like a spirit among the dark vines and lacy shadows of the old veranda.
Her hair fell about her shoulders like a tragic veil, while a sudden agony touched her young, white face.
"You know not what I have suffered," she sobbed. "You think I shall forget, but I never shall. I can not bear that he should not be mine."
"If only he had gone away like my grandmother, I could endure never to see him again. He would then be mine! all mine, and I could go joyfully into a convent and pray always for his soul."
Her voice had grown tearless and sharp.
From the corner of the house a tall, dark form was approaching.
"Come in quickly," I whispered; "Arturo is listening."