She sees the sword resolutely held in his grasp. She cannot mistake the appeal.
“Yes; let us, Valerian!” comes the quick response, with a look of despairing resignation, followed by the muttered speech of “Mother of God, take us both to thy bosom! To thee we commit our souls!”
He raises the blade, its point towards his sister—in another moment to be buried in her bosom, and afterwards in his own!
The sacrifice is not permitted, though the soldiers have no hand in hindering it. Dismayed or careless, they sit in their saddles without thought of interfering. But between their files rushes a form in whose heart is more of humanity.
The intruder is Conchita—opportune to an instant.
Two seconds more, and the fratricidal sword would have bereft her of a mistress and a master, both alike beloved.
Both are saved by her interference; for grasping the upraised arm, she restrains it from the thrust.
Roblez, close following, assists her, while several of the lancers, now dismounted, fling themselves upon Miranda and disarm him.
The intending sororicide and suicide is restored to his fastenings; his sister taken back to her tent; a trooper detailed to stand sentry beside and frustrate any attempt at a second escapade.