Pepito. [Changing his tone.] Good heavens! What a notion! I only—wanted to ask you—if it is true [hunts for something to say] that you afterwards—the viscount, you know?
Ernest. [Gloomily looking away.] Yes.
Pepito. How did it happen?
Ernest. I ran downstairs—half mad—I found them—we went upstairs again—locked the door. Two men—two witnesses—two swords—and afterwards—I hardly know what happened. Swords clashed—there was a cry—a thrust—blood spouted—an assassin stood—and a man lay stretched on the ground.
Pepito. The devil! Sharp work. Did you hear, mother?
Mercedes. More blood shed.
Pepito. Nebreda deserved it.
Ernest. [Approaching her.] Mercedes, for pity's sake—one word—Don Julian? How is he? If you could know what my anguish is—my sorrow—what do they say?
Mercedes. That the wound, since his removal, is mortal, and it would be worse for him if you went near the bed of suffering and death. Leave this house.
Ernest. I must see him.
Mercedes. Go, instantly.
Ernest. I will not.
Pepito. What insolence!
Ernest. It is befitting. [To Pepito.] Pardon me, madam [turning respectfully to Mercedes]; you see I am achieving the general opinion of me.
Mercedes. For pity's sake, Ernest
71
