“Pastorcillo! give me the beautiful fowl; you must give it me.”
“I am going away, Blanca,” he replied, but less sternly than before. It was the first time he had called her by her name, and it seemed as if she heard the count speaking.
“Going away!” she exclaimed, in blank despair; “oh, you must take me with you!”
“Take you with me!” repeated the shepherd. “No, you said you wouldn’t come.”
“Oh, but I did not know what I was saying!”
“It’s too late now,” replied the count.
“Oh, but I shall come, whether you will or no,” she said pertly; for every time he spoke his words seemed to rivet more firmly the chain which bound her to her affianced husband, it seemed as if he was his spectre come to avenge him.
“I cannot help it, if you choose to do that,” was all his answer, and he turned to go.
“Take me, Pastorcillo!” she said once more.
“You would not like to come where I have to go,” answered the supposed shepherd. “My dwelling is a dark cave, where no light ever enters. My bed is the sharp rock, which cuts through to the bones. My drink is water, muddy and cold; and my meat is grief and mourning. No companions are there where I live, for all men and women hold my way of living in dread.”