“It may be that some chance word escaped me.  There are times when a man of honor loses his head—­but beyond that, nothing, your honor.  Don Nicasio himself will bear me witness.”

“But Don Nicasio says—­”

“He, too?  Has he failed me?  Has he turned against me?  A fine way to show his gratitude!”

“He has nothing to be grateful for.  Don’t excite yourself!  Sit down again.  You began by protesting that you knew nothing at all about it.  And yet you knew so many things.  You must know quite a number more.  Don’t excite yourself.”

“You want to drag me over a precipice, your honor!  I begin to understand!”

“Men who are blinded by passion walk over precipices on their own feet.”

“But—­then your honor imagines that I, myself—­”

“I imagine nothing.  It is evident that you were the instigator, and something more than the instigator, too.”

“Calumny, calumny, your honor!”

“That same evening you were seen talking with the husband until quite late.”

“I was trying to persuade him not to.  I said to him, ’Let things alone!  Since it is your misfortune to have it so, what difference does it make whether he is the one, or somebody else?’ And he kept repeating, ‘Somebody else, yes, but not that rotten beast!’ His very words, your honor.”

“You stood at the corner of the adjoining street, lying in wait.”

“Who saw me there?  Who saw us, your honor?”

“You were seen.  Come, make up your mind to tell all you know.  It will be better for you.  The woman testifies, ‘There were two of them,’ but in the dark she could not recognize the other one.”

“Just because I wanted to do a kind act!  This is what I have brought on myself by trying to do a kind act!”

“You stood at the street corner—­”

“It was like this, your honor.  I had gone with him as far as that.  But when I saw that it was no use to try to stop him—­it was striking eleven—­the streets were deserted—­I started to leave him indignantly, without a parting word—­”

“Well, what next?  Do I need tongs to drag the words out of your mouth?”

“What next?  Why, your honor knows how it is at night, under the lamplight.  You see and then you don’t see—­that’s the way it is.  I turned around—­Don Nicasio had plunged through the doorway of his home—­just by the entrance to the little lane.  A cry!—­then nothing more!”

“You ran forward?  That was quite natural.”

“I hesitated on the threshold—­the hallway was so dark.”

“You couldn’t have done that.  The woman would have recognized you by the light of the street lamp.”

“The lamp is some distance off.”

“You went in one after the other.  Which of you shut the door?  Because the door was shut immediately.”