At the Countess’s look she quailed, and lied again. She had it still, she said. Dolores bade her give it to him as he came from early mass.
Then Jacinta cried and told the truth. She admitted that she had given it to Don Ramon.
Dolores heard this with the blood about her heart, but sat there silent, while the Indian woman grovelled at her feet. It was her note, then, that caused the duel.
Then mine, too, is the sin, she thought, not his alone; and this thought gave her joy. But where was he? was he strong enough to come? She took her writing-case and wrote an exact copy of her other note; and this was what she had said, and Ramon had read, and then had fought his uncle:
“Señor: The rose you asked of yesterday I gave Don Ramon; but the message that went with it was given him for you.
“Maria Joespha Dolores, Condesa De Luna.”
As she finished writing, the General was announced. His face was bloodless, but his wounds had been carefully dressed, so that the bandages could not be seen. He knelt over her hand, though the kneeling set them bleeding once again. But Dolores, timid only in her love, still saw but remorse and duty in his eyes. With him he brought his own priest, a priest from the Liberal army. “Pobra,” he said, “we must be married early—early and privately.”
She sought his eyes timidly and tried to say it; to say what words her note said in her hand. But she could not. She could only say, “I know—I have heard,” and she clenched the letter closer in her hand. She could not give it to him.
Del Torre’s face could not turn whiter. But he said: “Forgive me—only your forgiveness I can ask. At noon, then?”
“At noon.” She saw him leave the house; then, then she turned and cried to Jacinta: “Run, run, and give him this letter—at the Cathedral.”