"It has come, after all,—the sacrifice of blood on the altar of the temple,—the thing our fathers told us has come to pass."
The strings of pearls and other jewels were scattered on the diamond-shaped tiles of the floor, and many were red with blood.
"Some one has tried to steal the jewels while we all danced there," suggested one of the guests, "and she has died defending them. Rafael, she has given her life to save the jewels of your wife!"
"Yes," Rafael said, at last, and stared at the speaker in a dazed way; "my wife. I—I will go to my wife."
He strode through the crowd toward the living-rooms, and flung wide the door of her chamber. She was on her knees where Padre Libertad had left her.
His voice sounded hollow and strange in his own ears. A strange buzzing in his head blurred speech and thought, and when she arose and faced him with clear eyes and quiet face, he leaned against the chair and looked at her strangely—helplessly.
"She is dead," he said, thickly; "Angela Bryton is found dead—and your jewels—"
"Wait," she said, "and I will go with you."
And turning, she lifted the lid from the perfumed box of candles.