Trembling with excitement and agitation, dazed by the suddenness of the seeming tragedy, Myra stood rigid for a few moments, then threw aside the pistol she had snatched from Tony and ran to Don Carlos, flinging herself down on her knees beside him, and tearing off his cowl with shaking hands.
"Are you badly hurt?" she cried breathlessly, horrified to see that Don
Carlos's pale face was contorted in pain and his eyes were closed.
"Where are you wounded, Don Carlos? Shall I call for Mother Dolores?"
There was no response save a low moan, Don Carlos's limbs stretched out as if they were stiffening into the rigour of death, and his head sagged back as Myra tried to raise it. Temporarily, Myra completely lost her head.
"Speak to me, Don Carlos," she gasped brokenly. "Open your eyes and look at me, darling. Oh, surely, surely you can't be going to die! What can I do? Oh, my dear, my dear—"
Her voice failed her, she tried to cry out for help but sobs choked her utterance. Don Carlos's eyes fluttered open for a moment then closed again.
"Kiss me, Myra darling," he moaned faintly. "Kiss me, my sweet love."
Quivering with emotion, Myra bent down and pressed her trembling lips to his—and immediately found herself encircled by two strong arms, found the eyes of the "dying" man open and glowing with life and ardour, found herself crushed in a close embrace, and being kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
She struggled, broke free, and scrambled to her feet, her brain in a turmoil, and almost instantly Don Carlos also was on his feet, laughing exultantly.
"Myra, darling, surely you can no longer persist in pretending you do not love me," he exclaimed breathlessly. "If you hated me, as you professed, you would have let Standish try to fire a second time. I have put you to the test and proved that you love me."
Myra, agitated, bewildered, torn by conflicting emotions, gazed at him wide-eyed.