They neither moved nor spoke for a long moment. De Sancerre strove in vain to rouse the mocking sceptic in his mind. Son of a superstitious age, he could not conquer the idea that he was haunted in the wilds by the lover of this girl, whom he had slain. Presently, as he still watched the white blotch beneath the weeping tree, his will regained its strength and he exclaimed:
“Sit here, señora. I’ll go to it!”
He sprang to his feet, and, on the instant, Doña Julia stood by his side, while her gaze followed his toward the spectral outlines of an out-stretched man, motionless and ghastly beneath the moon.
“The saints protect us! You shall not go alone!” exclaimed the girl, putting an icy hand into de Sancerre’s grasp and taking a firm step toward the mystery which tested the courage of her soul.
“You must not come with me, señora,” cried de Sancerre, budging not an inch. “From where you stand your eyes can follow me. I shall return at once.”
Releasing her hand, the Frenchman sprang forward, and in another moment stood gazing down at the almost naked body of a man whose soul at that very instant had passed from this world to the next. In death the thin, drawn face regained the lines of youth, but on the head the hair was white, and on his chin a tuft of beard gleamed like silver in the moonlight. There was no flesh upon his bones. The night wind stirred the rags still clinging to his frame and tossed an oil-skin bag, fastened by a string around his neck, across his chest. A crucifix in miniature rested at that instant just above his heart.
“Nom de Dieu, it is a Spaniard—but not the ghost of him I slew!” exclaimed de Sancerre, breaking away from the horrid spectacle to return to Doña Julia. He had no need to go, for the girl was at his side, gazing down at the corpse with horror-stricken eyes.
“’Tis Juan Rodriquez!” she exclaimed, in a tone which voiced a conflict of emotions. “He goes to God with black, foul crimes upon his soul!”
“Who was this man, señora?” asked de Sancerre in amazement, drawing the girl to one side out of the insistent glare from the shrivelled corpse.
“An evil, treacherous creature, señor, who served my father as a scribe. I thought that he had perished with the others in the ship. I spoke his name to-day, when I told you the story of my father’s awful fate. From the moment of my father’s fall, until I found myself within the City of the Sun, my memory is dumb. That was a year ago and more. The man who’s lying there has suffered torments, señor, before his time was ripe.”