“It is a lie,” he panted; “it must be a lie. No, no! She is not dead; it is impossible. Speak, man! If you have any mercy, say it is a lie! She lives!”
The Spaniard, who with a very ugly expression had heard himself accused of falsehood, and whose black eyes had gleamed very balefully, almost smiled—the faint, wicked, inner smile peculiar to him.
“Yes, you are right, senor; she lives!”
Santley drew a quick breath of relief, and, coming closer, clutched the Spaniard’s arm.
“I knew it—I was sure of it. What did you mean by telling me that falsehood?”
Quietly, but firmly, Baptisto took the other’s hand and displaced it from his arm. His air of cold respect did not change, but the expression of his eyes and mouth was malignant.
“I did not lie, senor.”
“What! and yet you said——”
“I said my lady lived, senor, and it is true. We Spaniards do not lie. She lives indeed—not here, but yonder, senor, among the angels of the sky. Ah yes, she is there! Her body is at rest; her soul, senor, lives still for ever.”
“Dead! O God!... When did she die?”