. . but the lock snapped
harmlessly, for San Benavides had, indeed, borne himself gallantly in the
fray. He struck at her now in a whirl of fury. She winced, but with
catamount activity drew back her arm and hit him on the temple with the
heavy weapon. He collapsed limply, reeled from off the saddle, and they
fell together. The frightened horse, finding himself at liberty,
galloped to the camp, where already there was an unusual commotion.
Carmela flung herself on the man's body. She was capable of extremes
either of grief or passion.
"Salvador, my love! my love!" she screamed. "What have I done? Speak to
me, Salvador! It is I, Carmela! Oh, Mary Mother, come to my aid! I
have killed him, killed my Salvador!"
He looked very white and peaceful as he lay there in the gloom. She
could not see whether his lips moved. She was too distraught to note if
his heart was beating. It seemed incredible that she, a weak woman,
should have crushed the life out of that lithe and active frame with one
blow. Then a dark stain appeared on the white skin. Her hands, her
lips, were covered with blood. She tasted it. The whole earth reeked of
it. It scorched her as with vitriol. She rose and ran blindly. The
darkness appalled her. No matter now what fate befell, she must have
light, the sound of human voices.
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