"There is no blood upon it," went on the old woman in the same tone that seemed pitilessly striving not to hurt. "The little one scarcely bled at all. But Don Diego struck hard, and somehow the guitar was broken, yet it may have been with her elbow as she fell. It was not treachery, you understand. At first she believed that in his jealousy he meant to betray you, but he meant only to murder. And she, discovering this, dressed herself in your clothes and took your place in the line that night: I heard her playing down the stairs: they were all playing 'My love, she lives in Salamanca'--that was the tune--your own tune, Don Eugenio--and she, with her mask on, singing bravely, the third in the line. She was short, you remember--oh, perhaps a head and shoulders shorter than you!--but Don Diego, outside the door in the darkness, could not see well, or maybe he was misled by your guitar. And, afterwards, Don Sebastian ran him through. They brought her upstairs to me and laid her on the bed. She was breathing yet, but for a very little while: and I was to tell you--I was to tell you----" She broke off again, seeking to remember. "Was it something about the lamp, Doña Isabel?" "Yes, that was it--but I have told you already, eh? Only for you she had ever lit it: for years, yet always and only for you...." He crept past me, the guitar beneath his arm, and I followed. He went like a blind man, groping between the stair-rail and the wall. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED LONDON AND BECCLES. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespeare's Christmas and other stories, by A. T. Quiller-Couch