The accents of despair made Julio shudder; but he said, in a cold manner: 

“Are you ready, signor?”

“A moment more, one moment for prayer!” said Geronimo.

He joined his hands and uttered a fervent prayer; but although he apparently accepted his fate with resignation, it was equally evident that his soul struggled against the death which was hanging over him.

By degrees, however, prayer brought resignation and consolation to Geronimo, for the nervous trembling of his limbs ceased and his voice became more distinct and calm.

Julio fixed his eyes on Geronimo, and his heart was touched when he thought he heard him ask pardon of God for his enemies; but when the lips of the young man pronounced his own name in ardent supplication, and he distinctly heard his unfortunate victim praying for the soul of his murderer, Julio dropped his knife, and said, with a deep sigh: 

“My courage has forsaken me!  I have not the strength to accomplish this cruel act.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Geronimo, as Julio pronounced these words, “it is a voice from heaven speaking to your heart.  Hearken to it.  Have pity on me! spare my life!”

Julio was too absorbed in his own thoughts to heed Geronimo.  In accents of despair he muttered: 

“Frightful situation!  Beside the very grave I have dug for him, he prays for my soul!  And can I shed his blood?  But there is no help for it.  I must—­I must!”

The young gentleman remarked the struggle in Julio’s soul, and he mustered up all his strength to approach him; but Julio, seeing Geronimo’s design, picked up his knife, took the lamp, and left the cellar, saying: 

“It is useless, signor.  Fate is more powerful than we are; and struggle as we may against its inevitable decrees, they must be accomplished!  The sight of your sorrow has deprived me of all courage.  I go to regain strength.  I will soon return.  Be prepared, for this time I will act without delay!”

He closed the door and walked slowly down the passage.  Having reached his room, he stamped with anger, uttered desperate words, struck his forehead with his fist, vented his impatience, because he could see no solution of his difficulties.  He paced the room like a madman, fought the air, stopped, resumed his walk,—­until exhausted he threw himself into a chair.  Sorrow, anguish, and rage, by turns were depicted on his countenance.  He lamented the necessity of the murder, and complained in bitter terms of his sad fate.  But in vain he tortured his brain—­not a ray of light came to illumine his darkness.  The pitiless “I must do it!” was the invariable refrain.

By chance his eye fell upon the two bottles which he had placed upon the table, and as if the sight had inspired him with a sudden resolution, he seized one of the bottles, uncorked it, and putting it to his lips, drank a long draught, stopped a moment for breath, then emptied the bottle.