As the party on the corridor broke, Rezanov found no difficulty in reaching Concha's side, for even Dona Ignacia was chattering wildly with sev-eral other good dames who renewed their youth briefly at the bull-fight.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asked curiously.
"I did not look at it. I never do. But I know that you were not affronted. You never took your eyes from those dreadful beasts."
"I am exhilarated to know that you watched me.
Yes, at a bull-fight the primitive man in me has its way, although I have the grace to be ashamed of myself afterward. In that I am at least one degree more civilized than your race, which never repents."
The door of one of the smaller rooms stood open, and as they took advantage of this oversight with a singular concert of motive, he clasped both her hands in his. "Are you angry with me?" he asked softly. He dared not close the door, but his back was square against it, and the other guests were moving down to the refectory.
"For liking such horrid sport?"
"We have no time to waste in coquetry."
Her eyes melted, but she could not resist planting a dart. "Not now--I quite understand: love could never be first with you. And two years are not so long. They quickly pass when one is busy. I shall find occupation, and you will have no time for long-ings and regrets."
They were not yet alone, women were talking in their light, high voices not a yard away. The hin-drance, and her new loveliness in the soft mantilla, the pink of the roses reflected in her throat, the provocative curl of her mouth, sent the blood to his head.
"You have only to say the word," he said hoarsely, "and the Juno will sail to-night."
Never before had she seen his face so unmasked.
Her voice shook in triumph and response.
"Would you? Would you?"
"Say the word!"
"You would sacrifice all--the Company--your career--your Sitkans?"
"All--everything." His own voice shook with more than passion, for even in that moment he counted the cost, but he did not care.
But Concha detected that second break in his voice, and turned her head sadly.
"You would not say that to-morrow. I hate my-self that I made you say it now. I love you enough to wait forever, but I have not the courage to hand you over to your enemies."
"You are strangely far-sighted for a young girl."
And between admiration and pique, his ardor suf-fered a chill.
"I am no longer a young girl. In these last days it has seemed to me that secrets locked in my brain, secrets of women long dead, but of whose essence I am, have come forth to the light. I have suffered in anticipation. My mind has flown--flown--I have lived those two years until they are twenty, thirty, and I have lived on into old age here by the sea, watching, watching--"
She had dropped all pretence of coquetry and was speaking with a passionate forlornness. But before he could interrupt her, take advantage of the retreating voices that left them alone at last, she had drawn herself up and moved a step away. "Do not think, however," she said proudly, "that I am really as weak and silly as that. It was only a mood. Should you not return I should grieve, yes; and should I live as long as is common with my race, still would my heart remain young with your image, and with the fidelity that would be no less a religion than that of my church. But I should not live a selfish life, or I should be unworthy of my election to experience a great and eternal passion.
Memory and the life of the imagination would be my solace, possibly in time my happiness, but my days I should give to this poor little world of ours; and all that one mortal, and that a woman, has to bestow upon a stranded and benighted people. It may not be much, but I make you that promise, senor, that you will not think me a foolish, romantic girl, unworthy of the great responsibilities you have offered me."
