It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action, and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each other’s eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.
“Querida” he says, “do not weep. ’Twill be all well yet—I feel sure of it.”
“Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger! And if the cruel savages capture you. Ay Dios! to think of what they did with the others!”
“Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside Crusader. On his back I may defy them.”
“True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the darkness you may not find him.”
“If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again.”
This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope, almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: “Go, then, querido mio. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed Mary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers.”
No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that venture upon which so much depends.