“Chaleco, my friend, my poor friend,” I cried, throwing myself on my knees by his couch, and taking his hand, which lay so wet and cold in my clasp, that a sudden fear came upon me that he was dying. “Your hand freezes mine—your whole frame quivers; what is the matter—what does this terrible prostration mean?”
“It means,” said Chaleco, pointing his finger to a vial that had rolled from his hand half across the floor, where it lay uncorked, with its purple contents oozing drop by drop from the neck—“it means that, like Aurora, Chaleco has fulfilled his oath. That night, Zana, when you lay in Paplta’s tent, while the rubies burned in her ears with the color of Lady Clare’s blood—that night, while the death throes were at her heart, she made me swear an oath that our revenge for Aurora’s death should be completed by the overthrow of every living Clare; that by craft or violence I would wrest away their wealth for our people, and make you—her last of race—a queen at Granada; or failing, die like a poisoned dog by this hand. As the last death-rattle left her throat she pressed the drao into my palm. Look, you see it yonder dripping like gouts of black blood drop by drop from the vial. From that day I have carried it in my bosom. Zana, Zana! I have bought your happiness with my vengeance and my life; now tell me, on your soul—if human beings have souls—are you happy?”
“But for this knowledge—but for your danger—oh, heavens! that it should have been done for me—I am happy, Chaleco.”
A smile trembled over his white mouth, he reached forth his quivering hands and, seizing my garments, drew me down to his embrace.
“Live in peace,” he said; “her fate is atoned for. It was vengeance on them, or death to myself. I have parted with my people. A new count reigns in my place. I had the choice and wandered back to die with you, Zana.”
“Oh, Chaleco, it was a wicked oath; sinful in the taking, doubly sinful in the keeping.”
“Hush, Zana, is was that you might live free from Papita’s curse.”
I looked at him in dismay, the death shadows were gathering on his features.
“You are in great pain. Oh, my friend, is it death?” I questioned.
“Pain! yes, I might have made it the work of an instant, but gave myself time; every moment of your presence I have bought with a pang; but I could not die without you, Zana.”