What was he to say, what was he to think, if he could not believe that he existed; that that woman was Elena, his wife, that both had escaped the clutches of death?
“Speak, my Elena, tell me all,” murmured Tito at last, when the sun had set, and the birds had broken the silence. “Speak, my darling.”
Elena then told him of all her thoughts and feelings during those three last years: her sorrow when she ceased to see him, her despair at going to France, how her father had opposed this love, of which the Countess of Rionuevo had informed him; how happy she was at meeting him again in the porch of San Millán, and how she suffered at seeing him fall, wounded by the Countess’ harsh words.
She told him all, because it had increased her love instead of diminishing it.
The night fell and the darkness increased, but the secret anguish which disturbed Tito’s happiness was calmed. “Oh!” thought the youth, pressing Elena to his heart. “Death has forgotten my face and knows not where to find me. He will not come here. Ah! no. Our undying love would be able to put him to flight. What could he have to do at our side? Come, come, dark night, and envelop us in thy black veil! Come, even if thou must remain forever. Come, even though to-morrow should never dawn.”
“You tremble, Tito,” murmured Elena, “you weep.”
“My wife,” murmured the youth, “my own, my heaven, I weep for joy.”
So saying, he took his young wife’s bewitching head between his hands and fixed in her eyes an intense, delirious gaze.
A deep and burning sigh, a cry of wild passion met between their lips.