The two good women raised a frightful cry. Old Maria sobbed and rung her hands with grief.
“But what did the spectators do?” asked Dolores, shedding abundance of tears; “was there no one to arrest this scoundrel?”
“That is what I do not know,” answered Momo. “For on seeing this, I took to my legs, and in the fear that they would call upon me to depose, I did not cease running until I had put some leagues between the city of Madrid and the son of my father.”
“We must,” said the poor old Maria, amidst her sobs, “conceal this misfortune from Pedro. What griefs! what griefs!”
“And who could have courage enough to tell him?” replied Dolores. “Poor Marisalada! she was well, and would be better. See what has happened to her!”
“Each one gets what they merit,” said Momo. “This bad daughter should end badly—it could not be otherwise. If I were not so fatigued, I would go on the instant, and relate it all to Ramon Perez.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE news spread quickly through the village that the daughter of the fisherman had been assassinated. Thus this egotist, this rustic, this stupid Momo, thanks to his evil spirit, and his bad instincts, took what he saw at the theatre for reality, and he not only made a useless journey, because he had not accomplished his mission, but his folly led all the good people into an error.
The face of Don Modesto lengthened amazingly. The cura said a mass for the soul of Marisalada. Ramon Perez put a black ribbon on his guitar.
Rosa Mistica said to Don Modesto—