"Well, here at last—in the end without any will of my own so far as the Señor General was concerned—my dead sister was avenged; Paquita could now rest in peace in the grave to which these two men between them had brought her."
Castillo paused for a moment, but he went on again at once:
"There was nothing else for me to do but devote so much of this life as remained to me to the little Paquita." Of a sudden he clutched the sheet so madly that it tore. "God!" he cried shrilly, "what will become of her now?—my little Paquita—Dolores—apple of my eye—innocent issue of a monstrous evil. What will be thy fate? O God, hear the prayer of a dying man—"
"Stop him!"
Charlotte had risen, and now stood clasping Converse's arm.
"Don't allow that wretched creature to go on in this way," she commanded, imperatively; "it is unbearable. I—I—can't look at him—I can't address him; but reassure him about that poor, innocent child."
"Heaven bless you, señorita," Castillo cried fervently. But Charlotte shuddered, and with closed eyes recoiled from the bed.
"Tell him—make him believe it, Mr. Converse," she concluded weakly—"that I charge myself with that girl's well-being, if he will only not refer directly to her again."
"Swear it," Castillo demanded, in a voice that was no more than a hoarse whisper, so tense was it with eagerness. "Bethink you, señorita, that she is of no common blood—that she is the possessor of a wealth far beyond anything the Señor Westbrook ever dreamed of. Relieve a dying man's last hour. Swear!"
For a moment she faltered. She stood irresolute, one hand grasping her throat; then she advanced firmly to the bedside, and bestowed upon Castillo the benediction of her serene eyes.