I took the mongrel sword, and held it up to the light.
“There’s blood on its blade, as you see; but it is that of him who would have been the true assassin, had not my bullet disabled his arm. Have you ever seen this weapon before?”
“O ñor; I could not tell. ’Tis a macheté. They’re all alike.”
“Have you ever heard the name of Ramon Rayas?”
The answer was an exclamation—almost a shriek!
“You know him, then?”
“Ramon Rayas! oh, the fiend—he—it was he. He vowed to kill Calros. Calros! O Calros! Has he fulfilled his vow?”
Once more the girl bent over the body of the Jarocho; and leaning low, recklessly placed her lips in contact with his blood-stained cheek. At the same time her arms fondly flung around, seemed to enfold the corpse in a loving embrace. Had he been alive and conscious, with the certainty of recovering, I could have envied him that sweet entwining.
My impulse was of a holier nature. If I could not restore the dead, I might give comfort to the living. But was he dead? It was not till that moment I had doubted it.
As I stooped over the body, I heard a sound that resembled a sigh. It could not be the sobbing of the bereaved Lola—though this also was audible.