Then he searched again and again in every path, every shadow and every mass of shrubs, and, wonderful to say! he discovered neither the body, nor footprints, nor earth that had been disturbed, nor even a track of blood on the soil! And yet with a sure hand, thirsting for vengeance, he had thrice driven the dagger into the man’s breast and there had left it! And the man he had killed was Don Ruy de Cardenas, for he had recognised him well straight away from the dark depths of the room where he was watching when he crossed the terrace under the moon-*light, confident and gay, with his hand on his girdle, and his face uplifted with a smile, and the feather in his hat tossing in triumph. How could so extraordinary a thing be--a mortal body survive a dagger that had thrice pierced its heart and remained nailed there? And the greater marvel was that that strong body, though it had fallen like a bundle, heavily and inertly from such a height, had left not a mark on the ground below the verandah where a strip of wallflowers and lilies ran along the wall! Not a flower was crushed--all were erect and full of life, as if freshly out, with light drops of dew! Don Alonso de Lara stopped there, motionless with surprise, almost with terror, contemplating the balcony, measuring the height of the ladder, staring at those wallflowers, erect and fresh, without a stem or leaf bent. Next he began again a mad race down the terrace, the avenue, and the yew-path, still in hopes of finding a footprint, a broken branch, or a stain of blood on the fine sand. Nothing! The whole garden exhibited an unaccustomed order and fresh neatness, as if neither the wind that strips the leaves, nor the sun that withers, had ever passed over it. Then as evening was coming on, devoured by uncertainty and the mystery of the thing, he took horse and, without squire or groom, departed for Segovia. Bent and secretly, like a fugitive, he entered his palace by the orchard door, and his first care was to hasten to the vaulted gallery, unbar the shutters of the windows, and greedily spy the house of Don Ruy de Cardenas. All the latticed windows of the Archdeacon’s old dwelling were dark and open, breathing the freshness of the night; and seated on a stone bench at the door, a stable-youth lazily tuned his guitar. Don Alonso de Lara went down to his room livid, thinking that certainly no misfortune could have happened in a house where all the windows were open to cool it, and where servants were amusing themselves at the street door. Then he clapped his hands and angrily called for supper, and as soon as he was seated at the head of the table, in his tall chair of carved leather, he sent for the steward, and at once offered him a cup of old wine with unusual familiarity. Whilst the man drank respectfully, standing the while, Don Alonso, drawing his fingers through his beard and forcing his sombre face to a smile, asked for the news and rumours of Segovia.