“Careful now,” said Margaret. “Come on after me.” They crept from the office on tiptoe, their pistols ready. In the corridor a board creaked beneath them. They paused guiltily, straining their ears to listen. They heard some one cross the room quietly. Then the door was flung open, letting a glare of light into the corridor. A priest stood before them, holding up a crucifix. Within was a bed. A woman knelt by the bed. Some one lay on the bed, covered with a cloth. Margaret raised his hand, and the priest stepped back, looking at their faces curiously. “Donde esta el caballero inglès?” Margaret asked. “El señor Stukeley?” A faint smile showed upon the priest’s mouth. “Here,” he said in good English. He twitched back the bed-cloth reverently, to show the body of Stukeley lying dead. The face was a dull yellow, the mouth was inflamed. There was no need for further words. “Vomito,” said the priest. “Yes,” Margaret said, uncovering. “Vomito.” “This morning,” the priest said. The woman rose from the bedside, as though to drive them away. She was a black-eyed, hawk-nosed woman, of a crude and evil beauty. She was dressed in red and brown, in an outlandish style. She spoke in gasps, dreadful to hear; using broken English, laced with oaths and Spanish words. “Damn,” she said. “Damn perros. Cabrones de piratas.” “De quién es?” Margaret stammered, meaning “Who are you?” He had no gift of tongues. “Mrs. Stukeley,” the priest said. “The widow. His wife.” “Me Anna,” said the woman. “Me ’is wife.”