"He was my foe," muttered the prisoner, almost unconscious of the
import of his words, or how far they would confirm the suspicions
against him. "He robbed me of happiness--he destined me to misery. I
hated him; but I did not murder him. I swore to take his life or lose
my own; but not thus--not thus. Great God! to see him lying there, and
feel it might have been my hand. Men, men! would ye quench hatred,
behold its object stricken before you by a dastard blow like this, and
ye will feel its enormity and horror. I did not slay him; I would
give my life to the murderer's dagger to call him back, and ask his
forgiveness for the thoughts of blood I entertained against him; but I
touched him not--my sword is stainless."
"Thou liest, false traitor!" exclaimed Don Felix, fiercely, and he
held up the hilt and about four inches of a sword, the remainder of
which was still in the body. "Behold the evidence to thy black lie!
My liege, this fragment was found beside the body deluged in gore.
We know the hilt too well to doubt, one moment, the name of its
possessor; there is not another like it throughout Spain. It snapt in
the blow, as if more honorable than its master, it could not survive
so foul a stain. What arm should wield it save his own?"
A universal murmur of execration, acknowledged this convincing
evidence; doubly confirmed, as it seemed to be by the fearful start
and muttered exclamation, on the part of the prisoner the moment it
was produced.
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