It was Concepçion who came into the room first, his white shirt dyed with blood in great patches like the colour on a piebald horse. A cut in his cheek was slowly dripping. He went straight to a sofa covered in gorgeous yellow satin, and set the cushions in order.
‘Señorita,’ he said, and spread out his hands. The tears were in his eyes, ‘Half of Spain,’ he added, ‘would rather that it had been the Queen—and the world is poorer.’
A moment later Concha came into the room dragging on his cassock.
‘My child, we are in God’s hand,’ he said, with a break in his gruff voice.
And then came the heavy step of one carrying sorrow.
Conyngham laid his burden on the sofa. General Vincente was holding his handkerchief to his side, and his eyes, which had a thoughtful look, saw only Estella’s face.
‘I have sent for a doctor,’ said Conyngham. ‘Your father is wounded.’
‘Yes,’ said Vincente immediately; ‘but I am in no pain, my dear child. There is no reason, surely, for us to distress ourselves.’
‘And this good Conyngham,’ he added, ‘carried me like a child.’
Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in her hands.
‘My dear Julia,’ he said, ‘why this distress?’
‘Because all of this is my doing,’ she answered, lifting her drawn and terror-stricken face.
‘No, no!’ said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry. ‘You take too much upon yourself. All these things are written down for us beforehand. We only add the punctuation—delaying a little or hurrying a little.’
They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the shadows that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding his hand, knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering silently that sympathy which is woman’s greatest gift.
Concepçion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any present, looked at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning his cassock, and began to seek something in his pocket.
‘Your breviary?’ whispered Concepçion; ‘I saw it lying out there—among the dead.’
‘It is a comfort to have one’s duty clearly defined,’ said the General suddenly, in a clear voice. He was evidently addressing Conyngham. ‘One of the advantages of a military life. We have done our best, and this time we have succeeded. But—it is only deferred. It will come at length, and Spain will be a republic. It is a failing cause—because, at the head of it, is a bad woman.’