Patrice did not understand. Don Luis’ words fell uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the darkness of Patrice’s brain. However, one thought insistently possessed him; and he stammered:
“That was my father? I heard his voice, you say? Then it was he who called to me?”
“Yes, Patrice, your father.”
“And the man who killed him . . . ?”
“Was this one,” said Don Luis, pointing to Siméon.
The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quivering with rage, stared at him fixedly:
“Who are you? Who are you?” he asked. And, turning to Don Luis, “Tell me his name, I beseech you. I want to know his name, before I destroy him.”
“His name? Haven’t you guessed it yet? Why, from the very first day, I took it for granted! After all, it was the only possible theory.”
“But what theory? What was it you took for granted?” cried Patrice, impatiently.
“Do you really want to know?”