He caught her in his arms. Her body was loose and heavy as the body of a rebellious child--she had fainted with exhaustion and pain. Staggeringly, he lifted her on the bed and laid her down as comfortably as he could. She stirred a little and sighed. "Agua" she said, in a whisper. He found some water in a ewer, splashed it clumsily on her face, wet her lips with it. Outside the thunder grew fainter and rain began to fall in a black, streaming torrent. He did not notice it. He knew only that, he would never breathe easily again, if he did not bring back to life, if but for an instant, this slight, defiant flesh, austere now, coldly wrapped in the husk of a darker flower than Sleep's. She came back to consciousness, grudgingly, like a child learning to walk, like a visitor long-detained by a gift of pomegranates at a stony threshold and still half-unwilling to return. At last she was strong enough to sit up and make the woman's automatic gesture at arranging her hair. "Thank Christ," said Andrew, shakily, hardly knowing what he said, "I thought you were dead." "I was dead," said the Minorcan girl, and smiled a little, "How did you know?" "I heard you--in the corridor--you were crying--" She bit her lips. "They hurt my hands," she said, looking at them. "They hurt my hands." "Who did it?" said Andrew, voice and body cold. "She said I was her husband's strumpet," said the Minorcan girl, her eyes very black in the darkness. "She said she'd teach me. Then she got Mr. Cave." "I think I shall kill Mr. Cave," said Andrew. "But your--the other servants--they must have heard--Good God--the key was in the door--" "They are Greeks," said the Minorcan girl. "Touch a Greek and you touch a rat. Besides--they are hers and Mr. Cave's." "They are devils," said Andrew, sobbingly. "This is a house of devils--oh, a house of devils--" "Listen," said the Minorcan girl, with that smile that set her apart from him, in a circle of antique and savage stones. "Even yet, you do not know." And, sitting on the bed, while the rain slashed at the window, and Andrew dabbed at her bloody wrists with a torn handkerchief, she began, quite quietly, her recital of five years' wrong. There was no passion in the sentences--if there had been Andrew felt he could have borne their impact more easily. There was only the calm, insistent pulse of her even voice, throbbing slowly in the darkness like the beating of the wings of a tired bird. "So they hanged the priest in his robes, on a wooden post, and stuck a piece of bread in his mouth to mock him," her voice tolled gravely. It was the unforgiveable sin. "After that--"