“Where is Francesca?” she cries out in agonised accents. “Where is my daughter?”
No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.
“What means all this?” is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho’s horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, “Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?”
He makes no reply, nor any gesture—not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.
“Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don’t you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead—dead!”
“Not she, but he,” says a voice close to her ear—that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.
“He! who?”
“Alas! señora, my master, your husband.”
“O Heavens! can this be true?” as she speaks, stretching her arms up to the inanimate form, still in the saddle—for it is fast tied there—and throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless, as if her last spark of life had departed!