still lay in his conscience, that might have
barred him from fatal temptation at the crucial moment. But the
merchant's provoking words spurred him on and made him sin. A spirit of
revenge drove him to it. This is no novelty. How many times is crime
nothing more than the logical reaction against injustice!

Beside himself, Enrique stretched out his hand toward the place where
lay the emerald necklace. His fingers clutched convulsively. He turned,
and with one leap reached the door.

At that second, two shots crackled.

Darles flung himself into mad, headlong flight toward the Viaducto. At
first he heard a voice behind him, screaming:

"Stop him! Stop the thief! Stop thief!"

It was a horrible, nightmare voice. Then came the thunderous tumult of
the pursuing mob. Before him, the pedestrians opened out. He saw
astonishment and fear in their faces. As he rushed into the Calle de
Bordadores, a man brandished a stick and tried to stop him. Darles
veered to the left, and ran up the grade of the Calle Siete de Julio
with the speed of a hare.

Some one threw a chair at him, from a doorway. It hardly grazed him, but
tripped up his nearest pursuers. When the human hunting-pack, raging and
giving tongue, rushed in under the archways of the Plaza Mayor, its
menacing tumult echoed louder than ever:

"_Thief, thief! Stop thief!_"

Beside himself with terror, the student flung himself along. He kept
straight ahead, reached the park railing and leaped it with one bound.
This saved him. The dim light and the shadows under the trees masked his
figure. Still, he kept on running till he came to the fence again, and
once more jumped it.

This time as he landed, his knees could no longer hold him up. They
doubled, and he almost fell on his face. But he struggled up, once more,
and still ran on and on. Now the pursuers' voices sounded far-off, under
the echoing archways of the Plaza.

Darles kept fleeing down the Calle Toledo. He noticed that a good many
women were looking at him with uneasiness. One woman cried:

"He's wounded!"

When he reached the Puerta Cerrada, the student drew near the famous
cross that gives its name to the square. He could do no more. His legs
were collapsing with exhaustion, his heart was bursting, his tongue
protruding. A number of women, frightened, crowded about him.

"You're wounded!" they exclaimed. "What's the matter? They've shot you!"

There was no anger in their cries, but only simple pity.