there was water; she drank it thirstily. She kissed the rim his lips had used to touch. She kneeled down and said a Latin prayer. 'If God care,' she thought—and wondered dully.
The little timid song of the mountain birds came into the stillness of the tombs.
She did not hear it; she only heard Este's voice.
She took from her girdle the three-edged dagger that he had once worn near his heart night and day; she set it upright in the spot where the little child had lain upon its bed of rosemary, forcing the hilt down into a crevice in the rock floor of the chamber of the Lucumo.
Then she threw herself forward on the upright blade, which sank straight through breast and bone.
When the messengers of her lover came thither a day later, having sought her in the city and on the downs and hills in vain, she lay as though asleep, face downward, her head upon her arm.
He made her grave there, and buried with her half his life.
But men forget—and he forgot.
In time the wild olive, and the myrtle,
