“Not with deeds,” the Dictator said. “And yet, one thing you can say, one thing you know which you can tell me. Upon what spot of these accursed stones was she of whom we spoke bestially murdered?”
“Shall I have life, if I say?”
“You are not judged to death yet.”
Sagrado seemed to consider this in all its bearings, while the others watched him. A kind of hope kindled on his face for a moment; he even smiled: then he studied the Dictator’s face and smiled again, more bitterly.
“I think you would like to know that, Manuel,” he said, “ ‘pretty damned bad,’ as they say. You will not know it from me. But I do know it. What is more, Manuel; I heard what she said, before the knife-point touched her throat. Shall I tell you what she said?”
The Dictator made a sign with one hand: Sagrado was removed. A guardia’s hand upon his throat made his telling of what she said unintelligible, furious as it was.
The Dictator crossed himself and remained in prayer until the noise of feet and of raving were shut away by the door.
“So,” he said. “So passes the pride of power, into madness which brings a judgment. I knew that man as a scholar of strange things . . .” He paused and then continued in English:
“But you would like to know what brings me here, so like the Deus in the play. You must thank these two reefers here: Mr. Paggy and Mr. Crockums.
“Your brother, Miss Kingsborough, was left for dead in this house. He was not dead, however. He managed to crawl to the wall and there broke a window. Mr. Paggy and Mr. Crockums happened to be in the Plaza when the glass broke. They were in a state familiar to young men: a romantic state, of pining for romance. They thought that some woman was imprisoned here against her will. Hearing Mr. Kingsborough’s tale, they ran for help.