I did not answer.  A horrible suspicion had been growing within me, a suspicion which, like some infernal animal, was tearing at my heart with claws of steel.  Could Gabriela and Blanca be one and the same?  I turned to the assistant district attorney.

“By the way,” I asked, “where was Gabriela when she was arrested?”

“In the Hotel of the Lion.”

My suffering was frightful, but I could say nothing, do nothing without compromising the judge; besides, I was not sure.  Even if I were positive that Gabriela and Blanca were the same person, what could my unfortunate friend do?  Feign a sudden illness?  Flee the country?  My only way was to keep silent and let God work it out in His own way.  The orders of the judge had already been communicated to the chief of police and the warden of the prison.  Even at this hour the news had spread throughout the city and idlers were gathering to see the rich and beautiful woman who would ascend the scaffold.  I still clung to the slender hope that Gabriela and Blanca were not the same person.  But when I went toward the prison I staggered like a drunken man and was compelled to lean upon the shoulder of one of the officials, who asked me anxiously if I were ill.

VI

We arrived at the prison at four o’clock in the morning.  The large reception room was brilliantly lighted.  The guard, holding a black box in which was the skull of Senor Romeral, was awaiting us.

The judge took his seat at the head of the long table; the prosecuting attorney sat on his right, and the chief of police stood by with his arms folded.  I and the secretary sat on the left of the judge.  A number of police officers and detectives were standing near the door.

The judge touched his bell and said to the warden: 

“Bring in Dona Gabriela Zahara!”

I felt as if I were dying, and instead of looking at the door, I looked at the judge to see if I could read in his face the solution of this frightful problem.

I saw him turn livid and clutch his throat with both hands, as if to stop a cry of agony, and then he turned to me with a look of infinite supplication.

“Keep quiet!” I whispered, putting my finger on my lips, and then I added:  “I knew it.”

The unfortunate man arose from his chair.

“Judge!” I exclaimed, and in that one word I conveyed to him the full sense of his duty and of the dangers which surrounded him.  He controlled himself and resumed his seat, but were it not for the light in his eyes, he might have been taken for a dead man.  Yes, the man was dead; only the judge lived.

When I had convinced myself of this, I turned and looked at the accused.  Good God!  Gabriela Zahara was not only Blanca, the woman my friend so deeply loved, but she was also the woman I had met in the stagecoach and subsequently at Granada, the beautiful South American, Mercedes!