At last he arose, drew a knife from its scabbard, and trying its sharpness, murmured: 

“I cannot bury him alive!  Therefore I am forced to deal the death-blow!  No, no, I will not; I have even braved the vengeance of my perfidious master in order not to imbue my hands in his blood, and I will not now be guilty of it.  But what can I do?  I have no other alternative.  I must either bury him alive or kill him!  And I cannot stay here all night.”

He took up the lamp and slowly and silently he cautiously descended the stairs leading to the cellar; after some hesitation he entered; Geronimo’s body still lay in the position he left it.

Julio had taken this time a much larger lamp, and it lighted the whole cellar; he heard no sound from the breast of the unfortunate victim, although he saw plainly that life was not extinct, for there was a slight heaving of the breast.

After listening a moment, Julio muttered, with a kind of joy: 

“No additional cruelty is necessary.  He is in his death-agony, and he will soon die.  I will shut the door and finish my work to-morrow.  But my master will ask if all is done?  He need know nothing of this circumstance.  But I long to get away; and may the vengeance of God fall upon this spot to-night, and blot out all memento of it!”

Shortly after he left the garden, and with rapid strides threaded the obscure streets to rejoin his master, and also to cast off his blood-stained garments.

CHAPTER VII.

GRIEF AT GEROME’S ABSENCE—­TURCHI’S HYPOCRISY.

Mary Van De Werve was in her own apartment, kneeling before a silver crucifix; she seemed bowed down by a weight of woe.  Her head rested upon her clasped hands.  She had been weeping bitterly; for there were traces of tears upon the prie-Dieu.

Had a stranger surprised the young girl in this attitude, he might have thought that sleep had overpowered her during prayer; but the gasping breath and heaving chest sufficiently attested that she had not sunk in sleep, but that she was plunged in an expressible sorrow.

Behind her was seated an old woman, her duenna, with a rosary in her hand.  She gazed upon the young girl with deep compassion; from time to time she shook her head, and wiped away the tears which dimmed her eyes whenever Mary’s sighs became heavier.

For some time the silence was unbroken; Mary even appeared somewhat calmer, when suddenly, influenced by some peculiarly painful thought, she extended her arms to heaven and cried out;

“My God and my Saviour! through thy precious blood spare his life!  Have mercy on him! reject not the prayer of my broken heart!”

Again her head fell on her hands, as if this burning petition had exhausted her strength.  The duenna approached her, took her arm, endeavored to lift her, and said, authoritatively: 

“My lady, you must rise and cease your prayer.  God may be displeased with you for thus deliberately endangering your health.  Come, obey me.”