Still wilder—almost a wail—is the shout simultaneously raised by the young officers, when, after dashing open the state-room doors, they look in and see all empty!
They turn to those at the table, asking information—entreating it: one answers with a strange Bedlamite laugh; the other not at all. It is Don Gregorio who is silent. They see that his head is hanging over. He appears insensible.
“Great God! is he dead?”
They glide towards him, grasp table-knives, and cut the cords that have been confining him. Senseless, he sinks into their arms.
But he is not dead; only in a faint. Though feebly, his pulse still beats!
With wine they wet his lips—the wine so long standing untasted! They open his mouth, and pour some of it down his throat, then stand over him to await the effect.
Soon his pulse grows stronger, and his eyes sparkle with the light of reviving life.
Laid gently along the sofa, he is at length restored to consciousness; with sufficient strength to answer the questions eagerly put to him. There are two, simultaneously asked, almost echoes of one another.
“Where is Carmen? Where is Iñez?”
“Gone!” he gasps out. “Carried away by the—”