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"Ah, love of God! what misfortune has befallen Chino!" Then in English, and with a swift leap of surprise and dismay: "Ah, Meester Lockwude, air you hurt? Eh, tell me-a! Ah, it is too draidful!" "No, no," gasped Lockwood, as he dragged Chino's unconscious body to the bed Felice had just left. "No; I I've shot him. We met there on the trail."
And then it was that a wail rose into the night, a wail of agony and mortal apprehension: "Signor Lockwude, Signor Lockwude, for the love of God, don't shoot! 'Tis I Chino Zavalla."
Then he was surprised to hear Felice's voice asking, "'Ave you a letter for me, then, Meester Lockwude?"
"Rest assured of that, Signor Lockwude. Rest assured of that." "Well, get around here about nine." "It is understood, signor." Lockwood, who had a passable knowledge of telegraphy, had wired to the Hill for the doctor. About suppertime one appeared, and Lockwood bore the pain of the setting with such fortitude as he could command. He had his supper served in the office.
Ah, you one brave man, Signor Lockwude!" She would have taken his hand, but Lockwood, the pain all forgot, the confusion all vanishing, was on his feet. It was as though a curtain that for months had hung between him and the blessed light of clear understanding had suddenly been rent in twain by her words. The woman stood revealed.
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