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Finally, in deep despair, but with her faith in Rezanov unshaken, she took the veil of a nun, and entered the convent at Monterey. Harte finish the story:
Let Bret
Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, Since the Russian Eagle fluttered from the California seas; Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay, And St. George’s cross was lifted in the port of Monterey;
And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gaily drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, And exchanged congratulations with the English Baronet; Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, Some one spoke of Concha’s lover, heedless of the warning sign.
Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson, “Speak no ill of him I pray! He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,— “Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course! “Lives
she yet?” A deathlike stillness fell on banquet, guests and hall, And a trembling figure, rising, fixed the awe-struck gaze of all.
Two
black eyes in darkened white hood;
orbits gleamed beneath the nun’s
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.
“Lives
she yet?’ Sir George repeated. All were hushed Concha drew Closer yet her nun’s attire. “Sefior, pardon. She died, too!”
as
