In as few words as possible I told him the story of my life, of all the evil that de Garcia or Sarceda had worked upon me and mine, and of how it was through him that I was in this land that day. He listened amazed. “Holy Mother!” he said at length, “I always knew him for a villain, but that, if you do not lie, friend Wingfield, he could be such a man as this, I did not know. Now by my word, had I heard this tale an hour ago, Sarceda should not have left this camp till he had answered it or cleared himself by combat with you. But I fear it is too late; he was to leave for Mexico at the rising of the moon, to stir up mischief against me because I granted you terms—not that I fear him there, where his repute is small.” “I do not lie indeed,” I answered. “Much of this tale I can prove if need be, and I tell you that I would give half the life that is left to me to stand face to face in open fight with him again. Ever he has escaped me, and the score between us is long.” Now as I spoke thus it seemed to me that a cold and dreadful air played upon my hands and brow and a warning sense of present evil crept into my soul, overcoming me so that I could not stir or speak for a while. “Let us go and see if he has gone,” said Diaz presently, and summoning a guard, he was about to leave the chamber. It was at this moment that I chanced to look up and see a woman standing in the doorway. Her hand rested on the doorpost; her head, from which the long hair streamed, was thrown back, and on her face was a look of such anguish that at first, so much was she changed, I did not know her for Otomie. When I knew her, I knew all; one thing only could conjure up the terror and agony that shone in her deep eyes. “What has chanced to our son?” I asked. “_Dead, dead!_” she answered in a whisper that seemed to pierce my marrow. I said nothing, for my heart told me what had happened, but Diaz asked, “Dead—why, what has killed him?” “De Garcia! I saw him go,” replied Otomie; then she tossed her arms high, and without another sound fell backwards to the earth. In that moment I think that my heart broke—at least I know that nothing has had the power to move me greatly since, though this memory moves me day by day and hour by hour, till I die and go to seek my son. “Say, Bernal Diaz,” I cried, with a hoarse laugh, “did I lie to you concerning this comrade of yours?” Then, springing over Otomie’s body I left the chamber, followed by Bernal Diaz and the others. Without the door I turned to the left towards the camp. I had not gone a hundred paces when, in the moonlight, I saw a small troop of horsemen riding towards us. It was de Garcia and his servants, and they headed towards the mountain pass on their road to Mexico. I was not too late. “Halt!” cried Bernal Diaz. “Who commands me to halt?” said the voice of de Garcia. “I, your captain,” roared Diaz. “Halt, you devil, you murderer, or you shall be cut down.” I saw him start and turn pale.