He threw himself once more prostrate along the banqueta, determined to remain in that position. He muttered at intervals:—
“Poor Don Juan!—a true friend—to death—ay, even to death, for it is for me he dies—for me, and—oh! love—love—”
His reflections were brought to a sudden termination. The window was darkened by a face, and a rough voice called in:—
“Hola! Carlos, you butcher of buffaloes! look forth! Carajo! here’s a sight for you! Look at your old witch of a mother! What a figure she cuts! Ha! ha!”
The sting of a poisonous reptile—a blow from an enemy—could not have roused Carlos more rapidly from his prostrate attitude. As he sprang to an upright position, the fastenings upon his ankles were forgotten; and, after staggering half across the floor, he came down upon his knees.
A second effort was made with more caution, and this time he succeeded in keeping his feet. A few moments sufficed for him to work himself up to the banqueta; and, having mounted this, he applied his face to the embrasure and looked forth.
His eyes rested upon a scene that caused the blood to curdle in his veins, and started the sweat in bead-drops over his forehead. A scene that filled his heart with horror, that caused him to feel as if some hand was clutching and compressing it between fingers of iron!