ent in
disposition, caught Enrique by the shoulder.

"Enrique!" she cried. "Enrique!"

And for a moment she looked at him with one of those tragic, passionate
expressions that sometimes explain the sacrifice of a life. The student
could still whisper:

"Remember--!"

This was his final word. His eyes drooped shut. He died quietly, with no
bleeding at the lips. A whitish aura spread over his face. Alicia
exclaimed:

"Enrique! Can you hear me? Enrique!"

She felt of his forehead, his hands. He was dead.

"He's gone," said she.

This too, in her way of thinking, was admirable. Came a pause. Candelas
had got up, and now the two friends questioned each other with their
eyes. The same idea, the same terror had just struck them both.
Enrique's death would compromise them. The law would institute
researches, and the girls might easily be called upon to testify.
Instincts of self-preservation drove memories of the dead man from them.

"We're in a terrible position," said Alicia. "It's all your fault. I
didn't want to come."

Angrily Candelas retorted:

"It's _your_ fault!"

"Mine?"

"Of course! Who made him steal, but you?"

"I did? _I_?"

"Yes, you idiot!"

In Candelas' voice quivered that envious anger felt by all women against
any for whose sake a man has ruined himself. Then she added, more
calmly:

"It's lucky, anyhow, the janitress didn't see us coming up here."

Alicia Pardo examined the necklace. Her egotistic soul, enamored of
luxury, her little soul, that worshiped loot and gain, was now thinking
of nothing but the beauty of the jewels. Standing in front of the
looking-glass, she clasped the necklace round her throat and began to
turn her head from side to side. The contrast made by the blackness of
the pearls on the ermine whiteness of her throat gave her pleasure. And
for a moment her eyes burned with the insolent strength of happiness.

What had happened was by no means causing her any remorse. Why should
it? Was it her fault if Enrique had taken in earnest what she had asked
him by way of jest? Philosophically she reflected that the history of
every courtesan always contains at least one tragic chapter. Then her
mind drifted toward a shade of irony. Poor Enrique! The unfortunate boy,
she pondered, was one of those luckless ones who never realize their
dream, even though they lay down their lives for it.

At last, moved more by a feeling of tenderness than by any artistic
delicacy, she d