"Such a long one!" repeated Luna like an echo, imparting a grave expression to his words.
Aguirre, in his silence, seemed to be given over to a difficult mental calculation.
"At least a month long!" he said at last, as if in wonder at the length of time that had flown by.
"No, not a month," protested Luna. "More, much more!"
He resumed his meditation.
"Positively; more than a month. Thirty-eight days, counting today.... And seeing each other every day! And falling deeper and deeper in love each day!..."
They walked along in silence, their gaze lowered, as if overwhelmed by the great age of their love. Thirty-eight days!... Aguirre recalled a letter that he had received the day before, bristling with surprise and indignation. He had been in Gibraltar already two months without sailing for Oceanica. What sort of illness was this? If he did not care to assume his post, he ought to return to Madrid. The instability of his present position and the necessity of solving this passion which little by little had taken possession of him came to his thoughts with agonizing urgency.
Luna strolled on, her eyes upon the ground, moving her fingers as if counting.
"Yes, that's it. Thirty-eight.... Exactly! It seems impossible that you could have loved me for so long. Me! An old woman!"
And in response to Aguirre's bewildered glance she added, sadly, "You already know. I don't hide it.... Twenty-two years old. Many of my race marry at fourteen."