We sat together during the evening, sometimes talking and sometimes listening to Inez--for such Salambo would have me call her--as she sung some sweet Spanish love songs, until the time came for her to retire, and then we two men, who had passed through many strange scenes, were left together. "You are very happy," I said, when she had left the room. "Happy as man can be," he replied. "My Inez through all these long years was faithful to me, and has ever been as pure as an angel. And you, Tretheway, or rather, Trewinion, how did you find affairs at home? not well, I fear." I told him, just as I have written it in these pages, all that had happened since I left him. When I described my meeting with Bill Tregargus, and how I had heard that Ruth had died of a broken heart, driven to death by Wilfred, I saw the tears start to Salambo's eyes, and he eagerly asked what followed next. Then I told him of my meeting with Wilfred, what we had said to each other, and how we had engaged in a deadly struggle on the cliff. "And didn't you kill him?" he cried, clenching his hands nervously; "didn't you hurl the viper on the rocks beneath?" "Would you?" I said. "Would I?" he cried, "ay, and be proud that I had rid the world of such a one. The saints would sanction such a deed." I told him what had happened, at which he gave a great sigh as if of relief, after which a scornful smile played around his mouth as I told him of the terrible sufferings I had endured. He did not speak a word during the recital of the visit to Ruth's home, but gave a start as I told him of my determination to visit her grave. Then he sat like one entranced as I described my entrance into the church, and related how I lifted back the stone from the vault. Breathlessly he sat while I narrated how I had removed the clasps from the coffin and looked on the still face of my darling; and then leapt like a madman from his chair as I told how I felt her hand move. After that, while I related the remainder of my story, he walked up and down the room excitedly, sometimes laughing and again giving a cry of gladness, until I came to that part where I told Ruth of my sins, whereupon he sat down again, still staring at me wildly. "And you left her because of that?" he said in astonishment, when I had finished. "I could do no other," I replied. "Ah, but you could," he cried. "How?" I asked. "Why, that action of hers did not express her aversion of you, or if it did it could be easily overcome. You should have remained with her and she would soon have forgiven you." "How could she when I could not forgive myself? Besides, if I had stayed in England I should have been arrested as a murderer, and that would have brought her worse sorrow still." "That need not have been," he replied. "You could have brought her here, ay, and she would have gladly come, too." I dismissed this suggestion, for I knew it was not possible.