My meditations were interrupted suddenly.  I heard a door stealthily opened.  I knew before turning that the door was that of Chonita’s room, the last at the end of the right wing.  It opened, and she came out.  It was as if a face alone came out.  She was shrouded from head to foot in black, and her face was as white as the moon.  Possessed by a nameless but overwhelming fear, I turned the knob of the door nearest me and almost fell into the room.  I closed the door behind me, but there was no key.  By the strip of white light which entered through the crevice between the half-open shutters I saw that I was in the room of Valencia Menendez; but she slept soundly and had not heard me.

I stood still, listening, for many minutes.  At first there was no sound; I evidently had startled her, and she was waiting for the house to be still again.  At last I heard some one gliding down the corridor.  Then, suddenly, I knew that she was coming to this room, and, possessed by a horrible curiosity and growing terror, I sank on my knees in a corner.

The door opened noiselessly, and Chonita entered.  Again I saw only her white face, rigid as death, but the eyes flamed with the terrible passions that her soul had flung up from its depths at last.  Then I saw another white object,—­her hand.  But there was no knife in it.  Had there been, I think I should have shaken off the spell which controlled me:  I never would see murder done.  It was the awe of the unknown that paralyzed my muscles.  She bent over Valencia, who moved uneasily and cast her arms above her head.  I saw her touch her finger to the sleeping woman’s mouth, inserting it between the lips.  Then she moved backward and stood by the head of the bed, facing the window.  She raised herself to her full height and extended her arms horizontally.  The position gave her the form of a cross—­a black cross, topped and pointed with malevolent white; one hand was spread above Valencia’s face.  She was the most awful sight I ever beheld.  She uttered no sound; she scarcely breathed.  Suddenly, with the curve of a panther, her figure glided above the unconscious woman, her open hand describing a strange motion; then she melted from the room.

Valencia awoke, shrieking.

“Some one has cursed me!” she cried.  “Mother of God!  Some one has cursed me!”

I fled from the room, to faint upon my own bed.

XXVI.

The next morning Casa Grande was thrown into consternation.  Valencia Menendez was in a raging fever, and had to be held in her bed.

After breakfast I sent for Estenega and told him of what I had seen.  In the first place I had to tell some one, and in the second I thought to end his infatuation and avert further trouble.  “You firebrand!” I exclaimed, in conclusion.  “You see the mischief you have worked!  You will go, now, thank heaven—­and go cured.”

“I will go,—­for a time,” he said.  “This mood of hers must wear itself out.  But, if I loved her before, I worship her now.  She is magnificent!—­a woman with the passions of hell and the sweetness of an angel.  She is the woman I have waited for all my life,—­the only woman I have ever known.  Some day I will take her in my arms and tell her that I understand her.”