at that hour, in cabril, don alonso de lara, with eyes standing out with wonder and terror, was searching diligently all the walks and nooks and shades of his garden. when, after listening at the door of the room where he had shut up donna leonor that night, he slily descended at dawn into the garden and did not encounter the body of don ruy de cardenas below the balcony, close to the ladder, as he had expected with delight, he felt certain that the hateful man after falling down had, with his little remnant of life, dragged himself along, bleeding and gasping, in{75} the attempt to reach his horse, and get away from cabril. but the villain would not drag himself for many yards with that stout dagger which he had thrice buried in his breast, and had left there, and he must be lying in some corner cold and stiff.
then he searched again and again in every path, every shadow and every mass of shrubs, and, wonderful to say! he discovered neither the body, nor footprints, nor earth that had been disturbed, nor even a track of blood on the soil! and yet with a sure hand, thirsting for vengeance, he had thrice driven the dagger into the man’s breast and there had left it! and the man he had killed was don ruy de cardenas, for he had recognised him well straight away from the dark depths of the room where he was watching when{76} he crossed the terrace under the moonlight, confident and gay, with his hand on his girdle, and his face uplifted with a smile, and the feather in his hat tossing in triumph. how could so extraordinary a thing be—a mortal body survive a dagger that had thrice pierced its heart and remained nailed there? and the greater marvel was that that strong body, though it had fallen like a bundle, heavily and inertly from such a height, had left not a mark on the ground below the verandah where a strip of wallflowers and lilies ran along the wall! not a flower was crushed—all were erect and full of life, as if freshly out, with light drops of dew! don alonso de lara stopped there, motionless with surprise, almost with terror, contemplating the balcony, measuring the height of the{77} ladder, staring at those wallflowers, erect and fresh, without a stem or leaf bent. next he began again a mad race down the terrace, the avenue, and the yew-path, still in hopes of finding a footprint, a broken branch, or a stain of blood on the fine sand. nothing! the whole garden exhibited an unaccustomed order and fresh neatness, as if neither the wind that strips the leaves, nor the sun that withers, had ever passed over it. then as evening was coming on, devoured by uncertainty and the mystery of the thing, he took horse and, without squire or groom, departed for segovia. bent and secretly, like a fugitive, he entered his palace by the orchard door, and his first care was to hasten to the vaulted gallery, unbar the shutters of the windows, and greedily spy the house of don ruy de cardenas. all{78} the latticed windows of the archdeacon’s old dwelling were dark and open, breathing the freshness of the night; and seated on a stone bench at the door, a stable-youth lazily tuned his guitar. don alonso de lara went down to his room livid, thinking that certainly no misfortune could have happened in a house where all the windows were open to cool it, and where servants were amusing themselves at the street door. then he clapped his hands and angrily called for supper, and as soon as he was seated at the head of the table, in his tall chair of carved leather, he sent for the steward, and at once offered him a cup of old wine with unusual familiarity. whilst the man drank respectfully, standing the while, don alonso, drawing his fingers through his beard and forcing his sombre face to a{79} smile, asked for the news and rumours of segovia. had any event caused surprise and murmuring in the city during these days of his stay in cabril?... the steward wiped his lips and affirmed that nothing had occurred in segovia that was being talked about, unless it was that the daughter of don gutierres, the young and rich heiress, had taken the veil in the convent of the barefooted carmelites. don alonso insisted, fixing his eyes greedily on the steward. and had not there been a great quarrel?... had not a well-known young knight been found wounded on the cabril road?... the steward shrugged his shoulders; he had heard nothing in the city of quarrels or wounded knights. with a rough gesture don alonso dismissed the steward, and, after a spare supper, he returned{80} at once to the gallery to watch the windows of don ruy. they were now closed; in the end one at the corner shone a trembling light. all the night don alonso watched, tirelessly revolving in his mind the same wonderment. how could that man have escaped with his heart transfixed by a dagger? how could he?... when morning dawned, he got a cloak and large hat and descended, all muffled up and concealed, into the square, and remained patrolling in front of don ruy’s house. the bells rang for matins. tradesmen in ill-buttoned jerkins came out to raise the shutter-doors of their shops and hang out their signs. market-gardeners, urging on their donkeys laden with baskets, were already shouting their cries of fresh vegetables; bare-footed{81} friars, with their wallets on their shoulders, begged an alms and gave their blessing to the girls; and cloaked beatas, with great black rosaries, threaded their way greedily towards the church. then the city crier stopped at a corner of the square, sounded a horn, and in a powerful voice began to read a proclamation. the lord of lara had stopped, gaping, near the fountain, as though enraptured by the song of the three spouts of water. suddenly it occurred to him that that proclamation, read by the city crier, perhaps referred to don ruy—to his disappearance.... he ran to the corner of the square, but the man had already rolled up his paper and majestically departed, beating on the pavement with his white staff. when he turned round to spy the house again, lo! his{82} astonished eyes encountered don ruy—don ruy whom he had killed—coming walking to the church of our lady, gaily and airily, lifting a smiling face in the fresh morning air, wearing a bright jerkin and bright plumes, one of his hands resting on his girdle, the other absently twirling a stick with tassels of golden braid! then, with halting, aged steps, don alonso went back to the house. at the top of the stone staircase he met his old chaplain, who had come to greet him, and who penetrated with him into the antechamber, and, after respectfully asking for news of donna leonor, at once told him of an extraordinary event which was causing serious murmuring and surprise in the city. late the evening before, when the corregedor went to visit gallows hill,{83} because the feast of the holy apostles was drawing nigh, he had discovered, to his great amazement and scandal, that one of the hanged men had a dagger nailed in his breast! was it some wicked rogue’s jest? a vengeance that not even death had sated?... and to make the prodigy greater still, the body had been taken down from the gibbet, dragged in some vegetable or flower-garden, since tender leaves had been found clinging to the old rags, and afterwards had been hanged again, and with a new rope!... and such, then, was the turbulence of the times that not even the dead escaped outrage! don alonso listened, with hands trembling and hair on end. and immediately, in an anguish of agitation, shouting and stumbling against the doors, he wanted{84} to set off and verify the dismal profanation with his own eyes. on two mules, hurriedly caparisoned, they both started away for gallows hill, he and the astounded chaplain, whom he dragged after him. a large concourse of the people of segovia had already collected on the hill, gazing on the marvellous horror—the dead man who had been slain!... they all stepped aside for the noble lord of lara, who hurled himself up the ridge and stood and gazed, staring and livid, at the hanged man, and at the dagger which pierced his breast. it was his dagger—it was he who had killed the dead!
he galloped in terror to cabril, and there shut himself up with his secret, and straightway began to grow yellow and pine away, always keeping at a{85} distance from donna leonor, and hiding in the gloomy walks of the garden, murmuring words to the wind, until early one st. john’s day, a maidservant, returning from the fountain with her pitcher, found him dead below the stone balcony, all stretched out on the ground, with his fingers fixed in the bed of wallflowers, where he seemed to have been raking the soil for a long space, searching....
