“Thief!” hissed the priest.  “Dog!  Thou wouldst rob the Church?  Accursed! accursed!”

There was not one moment for hesitation, one alternative.  Before the priest could complete his malediction, De la Vega’s knife had flashed through the fire of the cross.  The priest leaped, screeching, then rolled over and down, and rebounded from the railing of the sanctuary.

V

Ysabel sat in the low window-seat of her bedroom, pretending to draw the threads of a cambric handkerchief.  But her fingers twitched, and her eyes looked oftener down the hill than upon the delicate work which required such attention.  She wore a black gown flowered with yellow roses, and a slender ivory cross at her throat.  Her hair hung in two loose braids, sweeping the floor.  She was very pale, and her pallor was not due to the nightly entertainments of Monterey.

Her duena sat beside her.  The old woman was the colour of strong coffee; but she, too, looked as if she had not slept, and her straight old lips curved tenderly whenever she raised her eyes to the girl’s face.

There was no carpet on the floor of the bedroom of La Favorita of Monterey, the heiress of Don Antonio Herrera, and the little bedstead in the corner was of iron, although a heavy satin coverlet trimmed with lace was on it.  A few saints looked down from the walls; the furniture was of native wood, square and ugly; but it was almost hidden under fine linen elaborately worked with the deshalados of Spain.

The supper hour was over, and the light grew dim.  Ysabel tossed the handkerchief into Dona Juana’s lap, and stared through the grating.  Against the faded sky a huge cloud, shaped like a fire-breathing dragon, was heavily outlined.  The smoky shadows gathered in the woods.  The hoarse boom of the surf came from the beach; the bay was uneasy, and the tide was high:  the earth had quaked in the morning, and a wind-storm fought the ocean.  The gay bright laughter of women floated up from the town.  Monterey had taken her siesta, enjoyed her supper, and was ready to dance through the night once more.

“He is dead,” said Ysabel.

“True,” said the old woman.

“He would have come back to me before this.”

“True.”

“He was so strong and so different, mamita.”

“I never forget his eyes.  Very bold eyes.”

“They could be soft, macheppa.”

“True.  It is time thou dressed for the ball at the Custom-house, ninita.”

Ysabel leaned forward, her lips parting.  A man was coming up the hill.  He was gaunt; he was burnt almost black.  Something bulged beneath his serape.

Dona Juana found herself suddenly in the middle of the room.  Ysabel darted through the only door, locking it behind her.  The indignant duena also recognized the man, and her position.  She trotted to the door and thumped angrily on the panel; sympathetic she was, but she never could so far forget herself as to permit a young girl to talk with a man unattended.