“Mary, Mary Van de Werve!” howled Simon Turchi, with biting sarcasm.

“I will renounce her hand and leave for Italy, and never again will I see a country so fatal to me, to her, to all that I love.”

“It is too late—­too late.  You must die!”

“No, no, Simon; in pity to yourself do not imbue your hands in my innocent blood.  God sees us; your conscience will torture you; never again will there be peace for you on earth, and your poor soul will be miserable for all eternity.  No, Simon, do not kill me.”

Then came a frightful cry, as though he were crushed, and Julio heard a sound which seemed like that of a dagger against metal.

This blow, however—­if it were a blow—­was not mortal, for Geronimo raised his voice with the strength of despair, and cried out: 

“Help! help!  Simon, let me live!  Mercy! mercy!”

Then a mournful groan escaped his lips, while, as his voice died away, h prayed: 

“My God, my God, forgive him!  I am dying.”

On hearing the conclusion of this horrible tragedy, Julio retired to the foot of the staircase.  He had hardly reached it, when the door of the room opened, and his master appeared.

Disfigured as Simon Turchi’s countenance had been by the thirst for revenge, crime made it still more frightful.  The signor could hardly have been recognized.  His hair stood upright; his eyes rolled in their sockets; a hard, hoarse sound escaped his lips; blood dripped from his hands.

He ran by his servant without speaking to him, ascended the staircase, and having reached his room he threw himself panting upon a chair.

Julio, who had followed him, placed himself before him, and asked: 

“Well, signor, is the deed accomplished?”

“It is; let me take breath,” said Turchi, breathing heavily.

After waiting a few moments, Julio resumed: 

“Did he offer any resistance, that you are so fatigued, signor?”

“Resistance?  No; but when I attempted the first time to pierce him to the heart, the blade of my dagger struck against metal, and grated harshly.  He wears a breastplate, Julio.  Could he have suspected my intentions?”

Turchi’s dagger had evidently struck the amulet which the young man always wore around his neck.

“Possibly,” replied Julio, “Geronimo may wear some guard on his breast; it is the place against which a poignard is always aimed, and no one is secure in the darkness of night from the assault of an enemy or an assassin; but what is there in this circumstance to move you so deeply?”

“So much blood spouted from the wound.  The sight of the blood, together with Geronimo’s piteous cries, struck me with anguish and horror.  I tottered so that I feared I would fall before completing the work; but happily I gained the strength to finish what I had commenced.  I pierced his throat with my poignard, and hushed his voice forever.”