Then followed the contrast of a great stillness; for, as the last accents died away on her lips, Isabel sank down, without a struggle, into a dead swoon.

A sad satisfaction came into Guy’s face.  “It is best so,” he muttered; “I hope she won’t wake for an hour,” and he carried her into the house.  They were trying to revive her, unsuccessfully, when I reached it with those who bore the corpse on a litter of pine branches.  By Guy’s directions, it was laid on his own bed; and there the Italian women rendered the last offices to the dead man, weeping and wailing over him as though he had been a brother or dear friend—­only for his rare beauty—­even as the Moorish girls mourned over that fair-faced Christian knight whom they found lying, rolled in blood, by the rock of Alpujarro.

Soon they came to tell Guy that Isabel was recovering from her swoon.  She was hardly conscious when he entered the room, and he heard her moaning, “I am so cold, so cold,” shivering all over, though she was warmly wrapped in cloaks and shawls.

The village doctor, a mild, helpless-looking man, was sitting by her bedside.  He tried to feel her pulse just then, I suppose to show that he could be of some use; but she shrunk away from him, and beckoned to her cousin to come near.  He motioned to the others to leave them alone, and, kneeling down by her, took her hand in his.

“Guy, dear,” she said, “I know I have been so very wicked and ungrateful to you; but you must not be angry.  I have no one left to take care of me but you, now.  I will try to be patient; indeed, indeed I will.”  Her voice was faint and exhausted, but as gentle as ever.

He held her hand faster, and bent his forehead down upon it.

“You are not wicked—­only too weak to bear your sorrow.  If I only knew what to do to comfort you!  But I am so rough and harsh, even when I mean to be kind.  I can say nothing, either.  I suppose you ought to submit, but I can not tell you how; it is a lesson I have never been able to learn.”

“You can do this,” she said.  “Let me go to him.  Ah! don’t refuse.  I will be calm and good.  Indeed I will.  But I must go”—­she sank her voice into a lower whisper yet—­“I have not kissed him to-night.”

There was something so unspeakably piteous in her tone and in her imploring eyes, that had grown quite soft again, though no tears had moistened them, that Guy could hardly answer her.

“I did not mean to refuse you, dear,” he said, at last.  “I won’t even ask you to wait.  If you are not strong enough to walk, I will carry you.”

She rose slowly and painfully, as if her limbs were stiff with cold; but she could stand, and walk with his arm round her; and so these two moved slowly along the deserted passages toward the room where the corpse lay.