a
light wind. Don Luis half-turned, and saluted her.

"Master," said Tormillo, "Manuela is here." As if she were a figure to
be displayed he lightly threw back her veil. Manuela stood still and
bowed her head to the uncovered gentleman.

"I am ready, senor Don Luis," she said. He came nearer, watching her,
saying nothing.

"I killed Don Bartolome, your son," she said, "because I feared him.
He told me that he had come to kill me; but I was beforehand with him
there. It is true that I loved Don Osmundo, who had been kind to me."

"You killed my son," said Don Luis, "and you loved the Englishman."

"I own the truth," she said, "and am ready to requite you. I thought
to have satisfied you by giving myself up--but you have shown me that
that was not enough. Now then I give you myself of my own will, if you
will let Don Osmundo go free. Will you make a bargain with me? He
knew nothing of Don Bartolome, your son."

Don Luis bowed. Manuela turned her head slowly about to the still
trees, to the sleeping water, to the moon in the clear sky, as if to
greet the earth for the last time. For one moment her eyes fell on Gil
Perez afar off--on his knees with his hands raised to heaven.

"I am ready," she said again, and bowed her head. Tormillo put into
Don Luis' hands the long knife. Don Luis threw it out far into the
lake. It fled like a streak of light, struck, skimmed along the
surface, and sank without a splash. He went to Manuela and put his
hand on her shoulder. She quivered at his touch.

"My child," said he, "I cannot touch you. You have redeemed yourself.
Go now, and sin no more."

He left her and went his way, stately, along the edge of the water. He
stalked past Gil Perez at his prayers as if he saw him not--as may well
be the case. But Gil Perez got upon his feet as he went by and saluted
him with profound respect.

Immediately afterwards he went like the wind to Manuela. He found her
crying freely on the stone seat, her arms upon the back of it and her
face hidden in her arms She wept with passion; her sobs were pitiful to
hear. Tormillo, not at all moved, waited for Gil Perez.

"_Esa te quiere bien que te hace llorar_," he said: "She loves thee
well, that makes thee weep."

"I weep not," said Gil Perez; "it is she that weeps. As for me, I
praise God."

"Aha, Gil Perez," Tormillo began--then he chuckled. "For you, my
friend, there's still sunlight on the wall."

Gil nodded. "I b