“Enough,” replied Felipa gloomily.  “I knew they were poisons:  you told me so.  And I let the snake stay.”

By this time the household, aroused by my hurried exit with the candle, came toward the arbor.  The moment Edward appeared Felipa rolled herself up like a hedgehog again and refused to speak.  But the old grandmother knelt down and drew the little crouching figure into her arms with gentle tenderness, smoothing its hair and murmuring loving words in her soft dialect.

“What is it?” said Edward; but even then his eyes were devouring Christine, who stood in the dark, vine-wreathed doorway like a picture in a frame.  I explained.

Christine smiled softly.  “Jealousy,” she said in a low voice.  “I am not surprised.”  And of her own accord she gave back to Edward one of his looks.

But at the first sound of her voice Felipa had started up:  she too saw the look, and wrenching herself free from old Dominga’s arms, she threw herself at Christine’s feet.  “Look at me so,” she cried—­“me too:  do not look at him.  He has forgotten poor Felipa:  he does not love her any more.  But you do not forget, senora:  you love me—­you love me.  Say you do or I shall die!”

We were all shocked by the pallor and the wild hungry look of her uplifted face.  Edward bent down and tried to lift her in his arms, but when she saw him a sudden fierceness came into her eyes:  they shot out yellow light and seemed to narrow to a point of flame.  Before we knew it she had turned, seized something and plunged it into his encircling arm.  It was my little Venetian dagger.

We sprang forward; our dresses were spotted with the fast-flowing blood; but Edward did not relax his hold on the writhing wild little body he held until it lay exhausted in his arms.  “I am glad I did it,” said the child, looking up into his face with her inflexible eyes.  “Put me down—­put me down, I say, by the gracious senora, that I may die with the trailing of her white robe over me.”  And the old grandmother with trembling hands received her and laid her down mutely at Christine’s feet.

* * * * *

Ah, well!  Felipa did not die.  The poisons wracked but did not kill her, and the snake must have spared the little thin brown neck so despairingly offered to him.  We went away:  there was nothing for us to do but to go away as quickly as possible and leave her to her kind.  To the silent old grandfather I said, “It will pass:  she is but a child.”

“She is nearly twelve, senora.  Her mother was married at thirteen.”

“But she loved them both alike, Bartolo.  It is nothing:  she does not know.”

“You are right, lady:  she does not know,” replied the old man slowly; “but I know.  It was two loves, and the stronger thrust the knife.”

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

AT CHICKAMAUGA.