passion in man, without losing the purity of mind which he adores in
her. She, too, feels a vague regret that some portion of his nature
is a sealed book to her, forever beyond her ken. But her regret is
nothing to his: he knows, and she does not.

My meditations were interrupted suddenly. I heard a door stealthily
opened. I knew before turning that the door was that of Chonita's
room, the last at the end of the right wing. It opened, and she came
out. It was as if a face alone came out. She was shrouded from head to
foot in black, and her face was as white as the moon. Possessed by a
nameless but overwhelming fear, I turned the knob of the door nearest
me and almost fell into the room. I closed the door behind me, but
there was no key. By the strip of white light which entered through
the crevice between the half-open shutters I saw that I was in the
room of Valencia Menendez; but she slept soundly and had not heard me.

I stood still, listening, for many minutes. At first there was no
sound; I evidently had startled her, and she was waiting for the house
to be still again. At last I heard some one gliding down the corridor.
Then, suddenly, I knew that she was coming to this room, and,
possessed by a horrible curiosity and growing terror, I sank on my
knees in a corner.

The door opened noiselessly, and Chonita entered. Again I saw only
her white face, rigid as death, but the eyes flamed with the terrible
passions that her soul had flung up from its depths at last. Then I
saw another white object,--her hand. But there was no knife in it.
Had there been, I think I should have shaken off the spell which
controlled me: I never would see murder done. It was the awe of the
unknown that paralyzed my muscles. She bent over Valencia, who moved