“Impossible!” he said.  “It would be the death-warrant of both my master and myself.  I must choose between his death and ours.  Implacable fatality urges me on—­in truth, I have no choice.  One blow, and all is over!  I must not hesitate; my knife is sharp.”

He drew his dagger from its scabbard, examined the blade, tried it with his finger.  He shuddered, and a cry of horror escaped him.

“Fatal position!” he exclaimed.  “To kill a man in cold blood! an innocent man!  What harm has poor Geronimo ever done me?  Stab him!  My heart fails me—­I cannot perpetrate such a cruelty.  And yet, and yet I must!  The crime horrifies me, but I have no alternative.  Only by the sacrifice of his life can my master escape the scaffold, and I the gallows.  Fate irresistibly pursues me; I am the slave of necessity—­I must follow whither it leads!”

With staggering step and in a blind frenzy, Julio ran down the passage, caught his dagger between his teeth, put the key in the lock, and turned the light so that it might fall upon his victim.

He stopped trembling in the middle of the cellar, and pity filled his soul as his eye rested on Geronimo.  He had indeed drawn his dagger to complete the horrible crime; but now, touched and moved by compassion, he considered the unfortunate young man, who extended to him his suppliant hands and begged for help.

Geronimo was kneeling on the side of the grave which had been dug to receive his corpse.  His face was partly covered with clotted blood; the portion visible was excessively pale, and his cheeks were so sunken that those few days of suffering had left only the skin to cover his bones.  His eyes, rolling wildly, were sunk in their sockets; his neck, weakened by the wound, could not support his head, which fell upon his right shoulder.  His clothes were blood-stained and covered with dirt.  It was evident that in his struggle against death he had dragged himself around the tomb to try, if possible, to escape it.

“Whoever you may be,” cried out Geronimo, “for the love of God, one drop of water!”

His voice was weak, but capable of moving the hardest heart.

Julio shook his head, without speaking.

“Water! water!” repeated the young man.  “I am burning up, consumed by thirst.  Water! water! one drop of water!  Save me from a frightful death!”

Moved by pity and forgetting, as it were, his own situation, Julio thrust his hand under his doublet, drew out the bottle, uncorked it, and without speaking gave it to the wounded gentleman.  He uttered a cry of joy, seized the bottle with feverish energy, and kissed with transport the hand which presented him the saving beverage.

Julio, with palpitating heart, watched the unfortunate Geronimo, as with trembling joy he placed the bottle to his lips, as if the contents were imparting to him a new life.

And indeed, after having quaffed a deep draught, Geronimo appeared to have new strength; for a sweet smile appeared upon his face, his eyes sparkled with gratitude, and lifting his hands to Julio, he said: