"Yes—oh, yes!"
Very tenderly Diniz took one of the trembling hands in his, and led her toward a darkened chamber, where, on the blue-draped bed, lay the still form of his young friend.
A convulsive shudder shook Lianor's slender frame as she gazed on those handsome features set in death's awful calm; the closed eyes, which would never look into her own again; the cold lips which would never breathe loving words into her ear, or press her brow in fond affection.
She could not weep, as Savitre wept; tears refused to ease the burning pain at her heart. Only a low moan broke from her as she threw herself suddenly over that loved body.
"My love—my darling! Why did I ever let you leave me? How can I live without you?"
"Hush, Lianor! Come, you can do nothing here. But one thing I promise you, I will avenge his death at any cost! The murderer will be found and punished—no matter who it is!" Diniz cried, earnestly.
"Thank you; and if I can aid, rely on my help," Lianor murmured, bravely.
Then, bending reverently to press a last kiss on the pallid brow, she allowed Diniz to lead her from the room to her own home.
In the hall they were met by Don Garcia, in a terrible state of anxiety for his daughter.
"Where have you been, Lianor? What is the matter? You look ill! And what is that?" pointing to a vivid red stain which marred the white purity of her dress.