When the somnambulist’s deliberate progress toward the mouth of the well continued he called her name softly.  “Dona Isabel!” Then he repeated it louder.  “Dona Isabel!  Wake up.”

The woman seemed to hear and yet not to hear.  She turned her head to listen, but continued to walk.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, reassuringly.  “It is only Esteban—­ Dona Isabel!  Stop!” Esteban sprang forward, shouting at the top of his voice, for at the sound of his name Isabel had abruptly swerved to her right, a movement which brought her dangerously close to the lip of the well.

“Stop!  Go back!” screamed the young man.

Above his warning there came a shriek, shrill and agonized—­a wail of such abysmal terror as to shock the night birds and the insects into stillness.  Dona Isabel slipped, or stumbled, to her knees, she balanced briefly, clutching at random while the earth and crumbling cement gave way beneath her; then she slid forward and disappeared, almost out from between Esteban’s hands.  There was a noisy rattle of rock and pebble and a great splash far below; a chuckle of little stones striking the water, then a faint bubbling.  Nothing more.  The stepson stood in his tracks, sick, blind with horror; he was swaying over the opening when Asensio dragged him back.

Pancho Cueto, being a heavy sleeper, was the last to be roused by Esteban’s outcries.  When he had hurriedly slipped into his clothes in response to the pounding on his door, the few servants that the establishment supported had been thoroughly awakened.  Esteban was shouting at them, explaining that Dona Isabel had met with an accident.  He was calling for a lantern, too, and a stout rope.  Cueto thought they must all be out of their minds until he learned what had befallen the mistress of the house.  Then, being a man of action, he, too, issued swift orders, with the result that by the time he and Esteban had run to the well both rope and lantern were ready for their use.  Before Esteban could form and fit a loop for his shoulders there was sufficient help on hand to lower him into the treacherous abyss.

It was a commentary upon Dona Isabel’s character that during the long, slow moments of uncertainty while Esteban was being lowered the negroes exhibited more curiosity than concern over her fate.  In half-pleased excitement they whispered and giggled and muttered together, while Pancho lay prone at the edge of the orifice, directing them how to manipulate the rope.

That was a gruesome task which fell to Esteban, for the well had been long unused, its sides were oozing slime, its waters were stale and black.  He was on the point of fainting when he finally climbed out, leaving the negroes to hoist the dripping, inert weight which he had found at the bottom.

Old Sebastian’s curse had come true; Dona Isabel had met the fate he had called down upon her that day when he hung exhausted in his chains and when the flies tormented him.  The treasure for which the woman had intrigued so tirelessly had been her death.  Like an ignis fatuus, it had lured her to destruction.  Furthermore, as if in orirnmest irony, she had been permitted at the very last to find it.  Living, she had searched to no purpose whatsoever; dying, she had almost grasped it in her arms.