" said Alicia. "I know the way."

She started along, daintily holding up her pearl-hued petticoat and
shaking the big plume of her hat with a graceful motion. They went
through a damp, ugly yard, then another, and began to climb a high
stairway. The silken frou-frou of their skirts and the tinkling of their
bangled bracelets broke the stillness. They reached the fourth story,
and stopped in front of a door that stood ajar. Alicia tapped with her
knuckles. No one answered. She knocked again. A voice, the voice of
Enrique, feebly answered from within:

"Come!"

The girls found themselves in a dark room that stank of blood. Alicia
could not repress a coarse exclamation of disgust.

"How sickening! Phew!" she cried. "What's this smell?"

At the end of the room, the silhouette of the bed was dimly visible.
From that bed, Enrique Darles stammered:

"There, on the little table--you'll find matches. Light--the lamp."

Candelas stood motionless, near the door, afraid of stumbling over
something. When Alicia had made a light, the two friends cast a rapid
glance about the room. The only furniture was a writing-table, a bureau
with a looking-glass on it, and, along the walls, half a dozen
rush-bottomed chairs. The student was lying, fully dressed, on the bed.
Against the whiteness of the pillow, his crisp and very black hair lay
motionless. He opened his eyes, a moment, and then, very slowly, closed
them again. Over his beardless face, saddened by the pallor of his lips,
wandered the ethereal, luminous whiteness of the last agony.

The two girls drew near him. Alicia called:

"Enrique! Enrique!"

He half-opened his eyes. His dark pupils fixed their gaze on Little
Goldie, in a look of gratitude. She repeated:

"Enrique! Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"They shot you, did they?"

"Yes."

"You--committed that--robbery in the Calle Mayor?"

"Yes."

Alicia looked exultingly at Candelas, as if asking her to take full
cognizance of this exploit of hers. Her expression showed the same kind
of pride that people sometimes manifest when they are exhibiting a work
of art. She had just won a great triumph, because men dare such crimes
only for women capable of inspiring mad love. Then the girl lowered her
head again, to look more carefully at the student's clothing; and as she
found it all stained with blood she felt a new attack of nausea. The
contrast was too sharp between the hot, sickening air of that
long-closed room and