His hearers burst into a cry of admiration.
The general turned pale; he tottered, and for a moment it was fancied that he was about to fall. A cold perspiration stood on his temples. Doña Anita sprang forward to support him, but he repulsed her gently, and, with a great effort, exclaimed, in a choking voice—
"Don Valentine, Don Valentine, such then is your revenge. Oh! blind, blind that I was to form such an erroneous opinion of you! You condemn me to live. Well, be it so; I accept, and will not deceive your expectations. Fathers," he said, turning to the monks, "lead me to your monastery. General Guerrero is dead, and henceforth I shall be a monk of your order."
Don Sebastian's conversion was sincere. Grace had touched him, and he persevered. Two months after professing, he died in the Franciscan Monastery, crushed by remorse and worn out by the cruel penance he inflicted on himself.
Two days after the scene we have described, Valentine and his companions left Mexico, and returned to Sonora. On reaching the frontier, the hunter, in spite of the pressing entreaties of his friends, separated from them, and returned to the desert.
Don Martial and Doña Anita settled in Mexico, near the Ralliers. A month after Valentine's departure, Doña Helena returned to the convent, and at the end of a year, in spite of the entreaties of her family, who were surprised at so strange a resolution, which nothing apparently explained, the young lady took the vows.
When I met Valentine Guillois on the banks of the Rio Joaquin, some time after the events recorded in this long story, he was going with Curumilla to attempt a hazardous expedition across the Rocky Mountains, from which, he said to me, with that soft melancholy smile which he generally assumed when speaking to me, he hoped never to return.
I accompanied him for several days, and then we were compelled to separate. He pressed my hand, and, followed by his dumb friend, he entered the mountains. For a long time I looked after him, for I involuntarily felt my heart contracted by a sad foreboding. He turned round for the last time, waved his hand in farewell, and disappeared round a bend of the track.
I was fated never to see him again.