Don Jorge advanced straight to him. Their faces almost touched.
“Your Grace, were you married to the woman by whom you had this son?” Don Jorge’s steady words fell upon the churchman’s ears like a sentence of death.
“I ask,” continued the dark-faced man, “because I learned last night that the lad’s mother was my daughter, the little Maria.”
“Santa Virgen!”
“Yes, Your Grace, a sainted virgin, despoiled by a devil! And the man who gave me this information––would you like to know? Bien, it was Padre Josè de Rincón, in whose arms she died, you lecherous dog!”
Wenceslas paled, and his brow grew moist. He stared at the boy, and then at the strong man whom he had so foully wronged.
“If you have concluded your talk with Señor Ames,” continued Don Jorge, “we will go ashore––you and the lad and I.”
Wenceslas’s face brightened. Ashore! Yes, by all means!
The trio turned and quietly left the room. Gaining the deck, Wenceslas found a skiff awaiting them, and two strong sailors at the oars. Don Jorge urged him on, and together they descended the ladder and entered the boat. A few moments later they landed at the pier, and the skiff turned back to the yacht.
As to just what followed, accounts vary. There were some who remembered seeing His Grace pass through the narrow 259 streets with a dark-skinned, powerful man, whose hand grasped that of the young newsboy. There were others who said that they saw the boy leave them at the Cathedral, and the two men turn and enter. Still others said they saw the heavy-set man come out alone. But there was only one who discovered the body of Wenceslas, crumpled up in a hideous heap upon the floor of his study, with a poignard driven clean through his heart. That man was the old sexton, who fled screaming from the awful sight late that afternoon.