“I am innocent!” I called out. “It is not my act; it was not I who—”
“Asesino! monstre! Whoever thou art; false fiend, to deny a deed of which—madré de Dios!—I have been almost a witness. There—there—the weapon still in your hands—his blood freshly spilt!”
“It is not his blood,” I replied, hastily interrupting her.
But she heard not the rejoinder! for suddenly turning from me, she flung herself upon the prostrate form, drowning my voice with her wild exclamations.
“Dead! Calros! dear Calros! Are you dead? Speak to me one word—a whisper, to say you still live! Ay de mi! it is too true. No answer—no breath! Where is the wound that has robbed you of life, and me of my only friend? Where?—where?”
And as she continued to give voice to these detached exclamations, she proceeded, as if mechanically, to examine the wounds of the unconscious Jarocho.