so white, so weak; those hands which had been cruel and strong little more than one short year ago. Ah, no one could refuse to forgive the Señora now! The gentle Ramona, had she seen her, had wept tears of pity. Her eyes wore at times a look almost of terror. It was the secret. How should she speak it? What would Felipe say? At last the moment came. She had been with difficulty roused from a long fainting; one more such would be the last, she knew,—knew even better than those around her. As she regained consciousness, she gasped, “Felipe! Alone!”
He understood, and waved the rest away.
“Alone!” she said again, turning her eyes to the door.
“Leave the room,” said Felipe; “all—wait outside;” and he closed the door on them. Even then the Señora hesitated. Almost was she ready to go out of life leaving the hidden treasure to its chance of discovery, rather than with her own lips reveal to Felipe what she saw now, saw with the terrible, relentless clear-sightedness of death, would make him, even after she was in her grave, reproach her in his thoughts.
But she dared not withhold it. It must be said. Pointing to the statue of Saint Catharine, whose face seemed, she thought, to frown unforgiving upon her, she said, “Felipe—behind that statue—look!”
Felipe thought her delirious, and said tenderly, “Nothing is there, dearest mother. Be calm. I am here.”
New terror seized the dying woman. Was she to be forced to carry the secret to the grave? to be denied this late avowal? “No! no! Felipe—there is a door there—secret door. Look! Open! I must tell you!”
Hastily Felipe moved the statue. There was indeed the door, as she had said.
