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 "You shall do it," said old Viola, in a strong voice. "You shall do it as my son would have ..."

"Thy son, viejo! . . . There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I must try. . . . But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me on ... And so she called upon me to save and then?"

"She spoke no more," The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought of the eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form stretched out on the bed up-stairs, averted his face and raised his hand to his furrowed brow. "She was dead before I could seize her hands," he stammered out pitifully.

Before the wide eyes of the capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark staircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in distress, freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man. It was impossible for him to do anything. He could only hold his tongue, since there was no one to trust. The treasure would be lost, probably—unless Decoud . . . And his thought came abruptly to an end. He perceived that he could not imagine in the least what Decoud was likely to do.

Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionless capataz dropped his long, soft eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce, black-whiskered face a touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had lasted for a long time.

"God rest her soul," he murmured gloomily.