“Now it is getting late. Mamma gets up very early for mass, and will wish me to go with her. Now you must go.”
“A little while longer, sweetheart! It is not midnight yet.”
“Yes, the clock in the Giralda[17] struck one.”
“No, it is only a quarter-past twelve....”
The slow, solemn stroke of the bell in the Giralda just then struck a quarter-past one.
“Do you hear? It is a quarter-past one. Adios! adios!”
“And are you going to send me off so, without giving me your hand?”
She reached it out to me, and I, naturally, was about to kiss it, but she snatched it away.
“No, no; wait a little, I will give you the crucifix, as in Marmolejo,” she cried with a laugh.
“I prefer your hand.”