fear for you—there." She touched her beautiful throat with a swift movement of a hand that disappeared at once under the lace. "And because I could not speak, I Don Juan, you have just offered me your life—I Misericordia! What else was possible? I made with my head the sign 'Yes.'"
In the stress, hurry, and rapture encompassing my immense gratitude, I pressed her hand to my side familiarly, as if we had been two lovers walking in a lane on a serene evening.
"If you had not made that sign, it would have been worse than death—in my heart," I said. "He had asked me, too, to renounce my trust, my light."
"We walked on slowly, accompanied in our sudden silence by the plash of the fountain at the bottom of the great square of darkness on our left, and by the piteous moans of the Chica.
"That is what he meant," said the enchanting voice by my side. "And you refused. That is your valour."
"From no selfish motives," I said, troubled as if all the great incertitude of my mind had been awakened by the sound that brought so much delight to my heart. "My valour is nothing."
"It has given me a new courage," she said.
"You did not want more," I said earnestly.
"Ah. I was very much alone. It is difficult to" She hesitated.
"To live alone," I finished.
"More so to die," she whispered, with a new note of timidity. "It is frightful. Be cautious, Don Juan, for the love of God, because I could not"
We stopped. La Chica, silent, as if exhausted, drooped lamentably, with her shoulder against the wall, by Seraphina's door; and the pure crystalline sound of the fountain below, enveloping the parting pause, seemed to wind its coldness round my heart.
"Poor Don Carlos!" she said. "I had a great affection for him. I was afraid they would want me to marry him. He loved your sister."
