Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadows were beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted only by the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carried along in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orange groves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars and castanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells.
When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lower hall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, and hurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone.
"One word, father," said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will she also become my wife?"
"You must forget Rosita," replied the old man. "You must tear from your heart even the remembrance of your love."
The young man abandoned himself to despair.
"I shall never forget her," he said, passionately. "My love for Rosita will only cease with my life."
And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering.
II.
For some weeks the inmates of Don Pedro's house were forced to remain prisoners, for rebel soldiers filled the neighbouring villages, and troops of guerillas were being mustered to put them to flight. It was a morning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above the horizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops which rested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streets were as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them at intervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir.
Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and was now alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window which overlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon a wooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly.