The Eletto hastily described the course of the brilliant, victorious march, and then asked what had happened.
The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone: “Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed was committed, which will vex you. The woman you love, the camp sibyl....”
“Who? What? What do you mean?”
“She went to Zorrillo, and he—you must not be startled—he stabbed her.”
Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone “Stabbed!” Then seizing the other by the shoulder, he shrieked: “Stabbed! That means murdered-killed!”
“He thrust his dagger into her heart, she must have died as quickly as if struck by lightning. Then Zorrillo went away, God knows where. Who could suspect, that the quiet man....”
“You let him escape, helped the murderer get off, you dogs!” raved the wretched man. “We will speak of this again. Where is she, where is her body?”
The captain shrugged his shoulders, saying, in a soothing tone: “Calm yourself, Navarrete! We too grieve for the sibyl; many in the camp will miss her. As for Zorrillo, he had the password, and could go through the gate at any hour. The body is still lying in his quarters.”
“Indeed!” faltered the Eletto. Then calming himself, he said, mournfully: “I wish to see her.”
The captain walked silently by his side and opened the murderer’s dwelling.