A minute passed. Jack was crouched at the brink, holding the joists of the ladder firmly with both hands.
"There is nothing, Señor; all emptiness."
"Come up again."
He stepped out on to the brickwork, and Jack rose to his feet.
"Dead! dead! dead!" said a quavering voice behind him.
He turned with a nervous start. While he had been engaged at the well, a figure had been slowly approaching from a thicket of laurel, furtively, with hesitation, stopping for a moment, then taking another unsteady step and stopping again. Jack recognized the old gardener, but how altered! His limbs shook as with a palsy; his lips mumbled without sound; his eyes were wild.
"What is it, hombre?" said Jack quietly without moving.
The old man stood as if listening. Then, raising his shaking right hand, the long fingers working convulsively, he murmured:
"I saw it! ... Dead!"
Then he smiled, a thin wan smile, and tottering forward pointed waveringly to the well. Jack recoiled. The old man's smile was more awful than a sob of agony.