Ricardo opened his eyes and smiled. He was not too weak to open wide his arms and draw her close, so that her head was pillowed upon his mighty shoulder. She sighed and whispered:
“You do love me, Ricardo, everything and always? As I love you?”
“More than when I loved you and lost you in Cartagena, Teresa mine,” he told her.
“And are you too tired to talk to me?” she anxiously entreated him.
“I had a rough night, but I feel strong enough to start a riot if you dare to leave me,” he replied with the laugh that she so delighted to hear.
“Please don’t look at my hair,” she implored. “It is all gone. Now I look like an ugly black-headed boy. But I cut it off for you. Will that make you forgive me?”
“All I can see is that you are beautiful, Teresa dear. I thought you might have been ill with fever.”
“Yes, Ricardo, if love is a fever. And I am not cured of that. I was trying to find you. And in Panama I was a young man in a bar-room hunting for news of you and your ship.”
“The Lord save us!” he exclaimed in dismay. “Is that my reputation? And I got into all this trouble trying to find you in Cartagena! You went to Cocos Island, I hear, so you know Señor Bazán is dead. But how did you know where to look for me? What did you think? Did you get the letter I wrote in your uncle’s house?”
“Not a word, Ricardo. All I had to tell me anything was the briar pipe you left there. Then I knew you were alive, and so I followed you. It was because I could not understand—because I had to find you—”