That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery.  It contained no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.

That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow.  In the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind, but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the morning.

To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might think, she thought only of him and of what she had done.  For she understood, and she only, in all the household.

Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all, the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her consciousness.  They were the things she knew, rather than the things she felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her.  The blow had struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing but the blow.  In truth she did not think that she should live until the morning.

It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great candlesticks as he lay.  And she sat down at his feet and watched his still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head.  It had been in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room.  She was glad, for she could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her.  After she had sat down, she did not move.

Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly.  His face was as grey as a stone.  He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said nothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat.  When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and she heard that he trod softly.  In two hours he came back, knelt again, and again repeated Latin words.  She knew that he was doing it for a show of sorrow, and she wished to kill him.  Then, when he was softly gone again, she wondered how soon she herself was to die.  There were two servants in the room, behind her, keeping watch.  They were relieved by two others, changing through the night.  She heard them come and go, but did not turn her head.