All these fantastic women had now merged into one, the real one who stood before us, accused of the murder of her husband and who had been condemned to die.

There was still a chance to prove herself innocent.  Could she do it?  This was my one supreme hope, as it was that of my poor friend.

Gabriela (we will call her now by her real name) was deathly pale, but apparently calm.  Was she trusting to her innocence or to the weakness of the judge?  Our doubts were soon solved.  Up to that moment the accused had looked at no one but the judge.  I did not know whether she desired to encourage him or menace him, or to tell him that his Blanca could not be an assassin.  But noting the impassibility of the magistrate and that his face was as expressionless as that of a corpse, she turned to the others, as if seeking help from them.  Then her eyes fell upon me, and she blushed slightly.

The judge now seemed to awaken from his stupor and asked in a harsh voice: 

“What is your name?”

“Gabriela Zahara, widow of Romeral,” answered the accused in a soft voice.

Zarco trembled.  He had just learned that his Blanca had never existed; she told him so herself—­she who only three hours before had consented to become his wife!

Fortunately, no one was looking at the judge, all eyes being fixed upon Gabriela, whose marvelous beauty and quiet demeanor carried to all an almost irresistible conviction of her innocence.

The judge recovered himself, and then, like a man who is staking more than life upon the cast of a die, he ordered the guard to open the black box.

“Madame!” said the judge sternly, his eyes seeming to dart flames, “approach and tell me whether you recognize this head?”

At a signal from the judge the guard opened the black box and lifted out the skull.

A cry of mortal agony rang through that room; one could not tell whether it was of fear or of madness.  The woman shrank back, her eyes dilating with terror, and screamed:  “Alfonzo, Alfonzo!”

Then she seemed to fall into a stupor.  All turned to the judge, murmuring:  “She is guilty beyond a doubt.”

“Do you recognize the nail which deprived your husband of life?” said the judge, arising from his chair, looking like a corpse rising from the grave.

“Yes, sir,” answered Gabriela mechanically.

“That is to say, you admit that you assassinated your husband?” asked the judge, in a voice that trembled with his great suffering.

“Sir,” answered the accused, “I do not care to live any more, but before I die I would like to make a statement.”

The judge fell back in his chair and then asked me by a look:  “What is she going to say?”

I, myself, was almost stupefied by fear.

Gabriela stood before them, her hands clasped and a far-away look in her large, dark eyes.

“I am going to confess,” she said, “and my confession will be my defense, although it will not be sufficient to save me from the scaffold.  Listen to me, all of you!  Why deny that which is self-evident?  I was alone with my husband when he died.  The servants and the doctor have testified to this.  Hence, only I could have killed him.  Yes, I committed the crime, but another man forced me to do it.”