"What was that on the stairway?" she said, "Was it a noise?—I thought I heard something."
She opened her eyes and started up; and with the sudden movement, the glass in her hand tipped and spilled over. "It is nothing," she said, "It fell on my hand. I will wipe it away."
Velasco laughed. "Your hand!" he cried, "Your hand is a rose leaf, so soft and so white. The wine has stained it with a blotch. How strange! It is red, it is crimson—a spot like blood."
The girl blanched suddenly and fell back with a cry.
"Not blood, Velasco! Wipe it off! Take it away! Not blood! Oh, take it away!"
Her eyes stared down at the blotch on her hand. They were frightened, dilated, and her whole body quivered in the chair. "Velasco—take it away!"
He put down the glass and took the small, white hand in his own, brushing it gently with the sleeve of his jacket. "There now," he said, "it is gone. It was only a drop of wine. Hush—hush! See, there is no blood, Kaya, I never meant there was blood. Don't scream again!"
"It's the Cross!" she cried, "the curse of the Black Cross! Ah, go—leave me! I am a murderess! I shot him, Velasco, I shot him! I fulfilled the vow, the oath of the order. But now—oh God! I am cursed! Not blood—not blood!"
She was struggling to her feet.
"Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy. I did it! Velasco—I did it!"