And Ramuntcho felt on his cheek a tear of Gracieuse: "No," he said at last, "I will not desert; I think that I would not have the courage to do it--" "I thought the same thing as you, my Ramuntcho," she said.

"No, let us not do that.

I was waiting for you to say it--" Then he realized that he also was crying, like her-- The die was cast, they would permit to pass by happiness which was within their reach, almost under their hands; they would postpone everything to a future uncertain and so far off--! And now, in the sadness, in the meditation of the great decision which they had taken, they communicated to each other what seemed best for them to do: "We might," she said, "write a pretty letter to your uncle Ignacio; write to him that you accept, that you will come with a great deal of pleasure immediately after your military service; you might even add, if you wish, that the one who is engaged to you thanks him and will be ready to follow you; but that decidedly you cannot desert." "And why should you not talk to your mother now, Gatchutcha, only to know what she would think ?--Because now, you understand, I am not as I was, an abandoned child--" Slight steps behind them, in the path--and above the wall, the silhouette of a young man who had come on the tips of his sandals, as if to spy upon them! "Go, escape, my Ramuntcho, we will meet to-morrow evening!--" In half a second, there was nobody: he was hidden in a bush, she had fled into her room.
Ended was their grave interview! Ended until when?
Until to-morrow or until always ?--On their farewells, abrupt or prolonged, frightened or peaceful, every time, every night, weighed the same uncertainty of their meeting again--.