Quentin mounted and remained for a long time contemplating the front of the farmhouse, which was bathed in the moonlight.
“Ah, poor Quentin,” he murmured. “Your sophistry and cunning have been of no avail, here. Are you not good? Then you cannot enter paradise. You are not fighting brokers here, nor politicians, nor insincere folk. But a mere slip of a girl who knows not the world other than what her heart tells her. She has conquered you, you cannot enter paradise.”
The horse walked slowly along; Quentin looked back. A great cloud covered the moon; the whole country lay in darkness.
Quentin’s heart was heavy within him, and he sighed deeply. Then he had a surprise. He was weeping.
He continued on his way.
And the nightingales went on singing in the shadows, while the moon, high in the heavens, bathed the country in its silver light.
El Paular, June, 1905.
THE END