She was kneeling inside, so that no more than her head was visible against the interior darkness, and her forearms crossed on the sill, bare and brown and sweetly modeled. The last dim effulgence of the sunset warmed her right cheek, the other was chilled by the waxing power of the moon--like the two phases of a man’s passion. Neither seemed to have any words, save those scared, triumphant articulations of their eyes. So they gazed at each other for a long time, while the knotted shadows of the vine established themselves upon the ground and the house-side, austere and grotesque. A slow bewilderment took hold of Va Di; something began to flutter in the back of his brain, an intolerable, weightless thudding, and the pupils of his eyes dilated curiously. He could not understand. He had an instinctive desire to huddle down or to turn and run away, as a coral-islander might feel, put down miraculously in the midst of the Himalayas. “Where--where is he?” he whispered, by and by. “He’s dead, Tony.” “Dead!” “Three days, Ton’.” The man took off his hat and stared into it; vaguely astonished at a jewel shining on the brim, he raised his hand to find tears rolling out of his eyes. He had an almost uncontrollable impulse to pray. “Old Lake’s dead,” he echoed in a shallow, vacant voice. Sluggish visions tumbled through his mind as he stared at Mamie’s dark, unmoving eyes. “Wha’--what was ailin’ of him?” “I killed him.” The air about the open window grew dank and old, shot with a faint reek of never-opened rooms, unaired wall-paper, crumbs of funeral cakes and spilled wine, and a memory hanging about it of withered old dead limbs. Va Di shrank back till his shoulders touched an upright of the pergola. His face was yellow in the half-light and one yellow finger scratched a cross on his breast. “You--y-y-you--” “I killed him, Ton’--after I got your letter.” If she would take her eyes away for an instant, then he could run. “You--got it--then?” She nodded slowly. “I didn’t tell nobody. Why? I don’t know, Ton’. But then I prayed to all the saints that he would die, and to the Blessed Virgin, and even to Christ Hisself--and three days ago he fell off Maya’s wharf and drowned.” “O-o-oh!” It was not tears now that wet his cheeks, but sweat, released suddenly from its pores. “They can’t git--you--for--_that_.” “They can’t. _They_ can’t. No. But--” For all the frightful, occult implication of her words, her eyes were still level and unfrightened, full of a deep, transfigured calm. Va Di could not live up to that; without ceasing he crossed himself and looked out of the corners of his eyes, as though fearful of beholding in that moon-checkered nook the form of a black, relentless priest.