The words died on Lindy’s lips, the ravings of the frenzied woman ceased.  The yellowed hands fell limply to the sheet, the shrunken form stiffened.  The eyes of the mother looked upon the son, and in them at first was the terror of one who sees the infinite.  Then they softened until they became again the only feature that was left of Sarah Temple.  Now, as she looked at him who was her pride, her honor, for one sight of whom she had prayed,—­ay, and even blasphemed,—­her eyes were all tenderness.  Then she spoke.

“Harry,” she said softly, “be good to me, dear.  You are all I have now.”

She spoke of Harry Riddle!

But the long years of penance had not been in vain.  Nick had forgiven her.  We saw him kneeling at the bedside, we saw him with her hand in his, and Helene was drawing me gently out of the room and closing the door behind her.  She did not look at me, nor I at her.

We stood for a moment close together, and suddenly the cries in the street brought us back from the drama in the low-ceiled, reeking room we had left.

“Ici!  Ici!  Voici le cheval!”

There was a loud rapping at the outer door, and a voice demanding admittance in Spanish in the name of his Excellency the Governor.

“Open it,” said Helene.  There was neither excitement in her voice, nor yet resignation.  In those two words was told the philosophy of her life.

I opened the door.  There, on the step, was an officer, perspiring, uniformed and plumed, and behind him a crowd of eager faces, white and black, that seemed to fill the street.  He took a step into the room, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and poured out at me a torrent of Spanish of which I understood nothing.  All at once his eye fell upon Helene, who was standing behind me, and he stopped in the middle of his speech and pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” he stammered.  I was no little surprised that she should be so well known.

“You will please to speak French, Monsieur,” she said; “this gentleman does not understand Spanish.  What is it you desire?”

“A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicomtesse,” he said.  “I am the Alcalde de Barrio, and a wild Americano has passed the sentry at St. Charles’s gate without heeding his Excellency’s authority and command.  I saw the man with my own eyes.  I should know him again in a hundred.  We have traced him here to this house, Madame la Vicomtesse.  Behold the horse which he rode!” The Alcalde turned and pointed at the beast.  “Behold the horse which he rode, Madame la Vicomtesse.  The animal will die.”

“Probably,” answered the Vicomtesse, in an even tone.

“But the man,” cried the Alcalde, “the man is here, Madame la Vicomtesse, here, in this house!”

“Yes,” she said, “he is here.”

“Sancta Maria!  Madame,” he exclaimed, “I—­I who speak to you have come to get him.  He has defied his Excellency’s commands.  Where is he?”