"Oh, but I did not know what I was saying!"
"Oh, but I shall come, whether you will or no," she said pertly; for every time he spoke his words seemed to rivet more firmly the chain which bound her to her affianced husband, it seemed as if he was his spectre come to avenge him.
"I cannot help it, if you choose to do that," was all his answer, and he turned to go.
"Take me, Pastorcillo!" she said once more.
"You would not like to come where I have to go," answered the supposed shepherd. "My dwelling is a dark cave, where no light ever enters. My bed is the sharp rock, which cuts through to the bones. My drink is water, muddy and cold; and my meat is grief and mourning. No companions are there where I live, for all men and women hold my way of living in dread."
When Blanca heard this, she turned pale; nevertheless, she could not see him go without her, and still asked to go.
The shepherd walked on without saying a word. Blanca followed him as if drawn by magic.
Away they went, sad and silent: far, far away; over rocks and declivities, through streams and torrents, past briars and brakes. For months they went on thus; the count going on before,--Blanca, sad and silent, after him. They never entered any town; and their only food was the berries they found in the wood, and the water of the brooks they crossed. Blanca's fair soft skin was burnt brown by the sun and parched up by the wind; her hands were torn by the thorns, and her feet bleeding from the unevennesses of the way. At last a day came when she could go no farther. She sank down fainting on the earth, but she was so humble now, she did not so much as proffer a word of complaint.
"What is the matter, Blanca?" inquired the count. "Do you give up following me any farther?"
"Pastorcillo! mock me not. You see I would follow you gladly, but you see too my strength is at an end; I can go no farther;" and with that her senses failed.
When the count saw her in this condition, he took pity on her, and, lifting her up in his arms, carried her to a shepherd's hut at no great distance along the moor, and there the good wife attended to her, putting her in her poor bed, and gently trying to bring her to again. But it was all of no use, she continued in the swoon, and the poor peasant's restoratives were of no avail.