She fell back into the chair again, sobbing, murmuring to herself. "Not blood—no—not blood!"
"That is over and past," said Velasco, "Don't think of it, Kaya. Be a boy, a man, not weak like a woman. Eat the rest of the bread."
The girl took the bread from his hand.
"Finish the wine."
He held the glass to her lips until she had drained it; and then she began to laugh a little unsteadily.
"You are right," she said, "a boy doesn't—weep. I must be strong, a good comrade." She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up at him pathetically, smiling with lips that still quivered. "It is over," she said, "I am—I have—you know; but it is over! I will forget it. Sometimes I can forget it if I try; then I shut my eyes at night and I see him before me, on his face with his arms outstretched—still and strange. The blood is trickling a stream on the floor! I hear the shot—I—"
"Be still, Kaya, hush! Don't speak of it; forget it! Hush!"
She began to laugh again: "See, I am your comrade, light-hearted and gay as a gypsey should be. Already—I have forgotten! What a couple of tramps we are, you and I! Just look at your boots!"
"And your faded old jacket!"
"And your scarf, Velasco!"