"Rosolia watched you from the house after your return from Alhama, whence, as you came alone, we concluded you had vainly sought your friend; and, I am ashamed to say, in the few minutes we were together, how much we diverted ourselves at the idea of your vain and fruitless trouble."
"Go on, Sir," cried St. Aubyn, fiercely—"spare this detail, and hasten to the conclusion of this detestable story."
"Rosolia then," resumed De Sylva, "told her brother she had a bad head-ache, and would endeavour to walk it off. From this young man she was grieved to part, and left him with emotion. She hastened to the Hermitage: we had no time to lose: she had brought with her all the valuables she could collect, and had round her neck the fine necklace of rubies you had given her at Seville, and that very cross I just now offered to those ladies on the beach.
"I pressed her to change her dress quickly, and was retiring for a few minutes, while she adjusted her male attire.
"Fearing a surprize, and thinking it might be wanted to defend us in our flight, I had brought with me the pistol, you, my Lord, gave me the night before: this I took in my hand, lest any one should approach to seek Lady St. Aubyn, determined if any did, to put an end to their existence; and (I will confess all) I should not have been sorry had Bayfield crossed my path.
"But as I turned to leave the Hermitage, my foot struck against an inequality in the floor, and endeavouring to recover myself, the pistol went off in my hand, and the ball entered the head of the unfortunate Rosolia.
"She fell instantly—one groan alone escaped her. I approached, hoping she was only alarmed by the report, or but slightly hurt; but to my astonishment and horror she was a breathless corpse.
"In this dreadful moment, my first idea was instant flight, since that alone could save me.—But why, thought I, since she is dead, should I leave behind those valuable ornaments?—And O!—how hardened was my heart!
"The woman I had admired, and professed to love, had that instant breathed her last—fallen by my hand, though from an unintended stroke, and in the very moment, when, by a guilty flight, she had resolved to give me the greatest proof of love, and unite her fate with mine: yet so little impression did these dreadful circumstances make upon me, that I had sufficient composure to unclasp the costly necklace from her neck, and the bracelets from her arms, though that body, lately so blooming and so animated, was not yet cold in death.—Such is the love of the wicked!
"By some means, as I afterwards discovered, I dropt, and lost the valuable ring I mentioned before; and as I knew I had it just before I entered this fatal Hermitage, I concluded it was there I had lost it.