"And Rita?" said Herrera, unable to restrain the inquiry, "where is she?"
"Rita!" repeated the nun in a hollow broken voice, "What of her? Where am I? how came I here? Oh, oh!" she exclaimed in tones of anguish, "I remember!"
She put her hand to her head with a suffering gesture; a strange wild gleam shone in her eyes, her reason seemed departing. Herrera anxiously watched her. Her features became more composed, and for a moment she appeared to suffer less.
"And Rita?" he again asked.
She looked him full in the face, the fire of delirium in her eyes. "Rita!" she repeated. She paused, and then burst out into a scream of laughter that made Herrera shudder.
"Ha, ha!" she cried, "False! vile! faithless!"——
The laugh died away upon her convulsed lips, a deep sob burst from her breast, her head fell back. She was a corpse.
Herrera had but just assured himself that life had indeed fled, when he heard in two different directions the sound of horses' feet, and then Torres galloped up, followed by three of the guerillas.
"What do you here? The Mochuelo is furious at the delay. You will be left behind. Where is Rita? Who is this?" cried he, looking at the dead body of the nun.
Before Herrera could reply, Velasquez cleared the ditch. His face was covered with blood, his sabre, which dangled from his wrist, showed the same sanguine signals, and he led Baltasar's horse by the rein.