The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure of the San Tome mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars the lantern sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black speck upon the shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery, rested her head on the rail. The moon, drooping in the western board, looked at her radiantly.
Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a passing boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.
“Linda!” he shouted, throwing back his head. “Linda!”
Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.
“Is he dead?” she cried, bending over.
“Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,” the doctor answered from below. “Pull to the beach,” he said to the rowers.
Linda’s black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern with her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw herself over.
“It is I who loved you,” she whispered, with a face as set and white as marble in the moonlight. “I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed miserably for her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand. But I shall never forget thee. Never!”
She stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her fidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.
“Never! Gian’ Battista!”