He pressed the young woman’s hands, who, bewildered by Gabriel’s words, knew not what to say, and wept softly.  Upstairs, in the upper storey of the Claverias, the Chapel-master played his harmonium.  Gabriel knew the music:  it was Beethoven’s last lament, the “Must it be,” that the great genius sang before his death with a melancholy that made one shiver.

“I love you, Sagrario,” continued Gabriel, “ever since I saw you return to this house, bravely facing the odious curiosity of the people around.  I have spent weeks and months by the side of your machine, seeing how industriously you worked.  I have studied you and read you.  You are a sincere and simple creature; your mind has none of the doublings and hidden corners of those complicated and tortuous souls used to the artifices of civilisation.  I guessed day by day, by your gentle glance and the attention with which you listened to me, your gratitude for the little I was able to do for you.  I remembered the dark period of your life, your slavery to the flesh; and finding me always gentle with you, protecting you from your father’s anger, your gratitude has grown and grown, till to-day you love me, Sagrario.  You yourself have not realised it, you know not how to explain it, but your being responds to mine like those chemical substances I spoke of.  That single and eternal love is a lying invention of the poets, of which facts often make a mockery.  One can love several people with equal warmth:  the indispensable thing is the affinity.  You who formerly loved a man to madness, what do you feel for me?  Have I deceived myself?  You really love me?”

Sagrario continued weeping, with her head bent, as though she did not dare to look at Luna.  He reassured her gently:  she must call him Gabriel, speak to him as “thou.”  Were they not companions in misfortune?

“I am ashamed,” murmured the young woman.  “So much happiness disturbs me.  Yes, I like you.  No, I love you, Gabriel.  I would never have confessed it; I would have died sooner than reveal my secret.  What am I that anyone should love me?  For many days I have not looked in the glass, for I should weep at the remembrance of my lost youth.  And then my story—­my terrible story.  How could I imagine that you—­or, I should say, that thou, wouldst read my thoughts so clearly?  See how I tremble; the shock has not yet ceased, the surprise of finding my secret discovered.  A man like you to descend to me, ugly and sick for ever.  No, do not speak of the other man; I forgot him long ago.  And am I going to remember him now that you give me the charity of your love?  No, Gabriel, you are the greatest and best of men; you are like a god to me.”

They remained silent a long while with their hands clasped, looking into the darkness of the murmuring garden.  From above still sounded the lament of the genius at his fading life.

Sagrario leant on Gabriel as though her strength were failing, and as if terrified at so much happiness, she wished to take refuge in his arms.