XLVII

At eleven o’clock in the evening of the twenty-ninth I took leave of the family and María in the parlor. I sat up in my room until I heard the clock strike one⁠—the first hour of the dreaded day at last arrived; I did not want it to find me sleeping. Without undressing, I lay down on my bed at the stroke of two. María’s handkerchief, fragrant with the perfume which she always used, crumpled by her hands, and moistened by her tears, was on my pillow.

Two or three times I fell asleep, but awoke in nervous agitation. I tried to woo back the disturbed sleep, for asleep I should again see her radiantly beautiful as on the first days after my return; thoughtful and silent, as she was when I first declared to her my affection. Again I should hear her low and trembling voice confiding to me the secret of her most pure love. Again I should see her eyes, less timid at last, revealing to me all her soul, while they read mine. I slept again. The sound of a sob awakened me. It was the one which had escaped from her that night as we parted.

It was not yet five, when, after taking pains to conceal the traces of my sleeplessness, I began walking in the dim corridor. Very soon I saw the gleam of a light in María’s room, and heard Juan’s voice calling her.

The first rays of the rising sun vainly tried to break through the thick fog which hung like a great veil from the mountain peaks, and floated far out on the distant plains. The western summits were clear and blue; against them the churches of Cali showed golden, while, farther down, the little villages of Yumbo and Vijes whitened against the slopes like flocks of sheep.

Juan Ángel brought me my coffee, and saddled my black horse. The impatient animal was pawing up the grass under the orange-tree where he was tied. Then the faithful servant waited for me, leaning against the door of my room, holding my spurs in his hand, and having my leggings over his arms; as he put them on me, his tears fell in great drops on my feet.

“Don’t cry.” I said to him. “When I come back, you will be a man, and will never be separated from me again. In the meantime, all the family will think a great deal of you.”

The moment had come for me to summon all my strength. My spurs rang on the parlor floor⁠—the room was empty. The door of my mother’s sewing-room was ajar. I pushed it open; she threw herself into my arms. Knowing that the expression of her sorrow might weaken my courage, between her sobs she tried to speak to me of María, and to make me affectionate promises.

All had taken a tearful farewell. Emma, who was the last of all, perceiving that I looked about as I released myself from her embrace, pointed me to the door of the oratory. I passed through it. The yellow gleam of two candles was irradiating the altar. María was seated upon the rug, over which flowed her white dress. She gave a faint cry as she perceived me, and then let her head fall again upon the chair where she was leaning it when I entered. Hiding her face from me in that way, she held out her hand to me. Half kneeling, I bathed it in tears and covered it with caresses. As I rose, she suddenly leaped up, as if in fear that I was already going, and hung sobbing upon my neck. Until then my heart had scarcely known what sorrow was.

My lips rested upon her forehead. Startled, María drew back her head. Then, hiding her face on my breast, she stretched out her arm and pointed me to the altar. Emma came in, and caught her, fainting. She made a beseeching gesture, meaning that I was to go. I obeyed.