"Ah," she said, smiling, "it is you, Senor? How good of you."
The man started. "Whom else did you expect?" he said quickly.
"Oh!" laughed the woman, "perhaps the Archbishop."
"Nina!" said the man, in a broken voice that expressed love, humility, and reproach. His face was white under the black sunburn.
For a moment the woman wavered. A shadow flitted over her eyes, then she stepped back. "No," she said, "not yet."
The man walked across to the fire, sank down in a chair, and covered his face with his hands. The woman stepped up noiselessly behind him and leaned over the chair. The man was either in great agony or else he was a superb actor, for the muscles of his neck twitched violently and his shoulders trembled.
"Oh," he muttered, as though echoing his thoughts, "I can't do it, I can't!"
The woman caught the words and leaped up as though some one had struck her in the face. She threw back her head. Her nostrils dilated and her eyes flashed.
"You can't do it!" she cried. "Then you do love her! You shall do it! Do you hear me? You shall do it! You killed him! You got rid of him! but you shall not get rid of me. I have the evidence, all of it. The Archbishop will have it to-morrow. They shall hang you! Do you hear me? They shall hang you!"
The woman's voice rose, it was loud and shrill. The man turned slowly round without looking up, and stretched out his arms toward the woman. She stopped and looked down at him. The fire glittered for a moment and then died out of her eyes, her bosom heaved and her lips began to tremble. With a cry she flung herself into his arms, caught him around the neck, and pressed his face up close against her cheek.