We arrived at the prison at four o'clock in the morning. The large
reception room was brilliantly lighted. The guard, holding a black box
in which was the skull of Señor Romeral, was awaiting us.
The judge took his seat at the head of the long table; the prosecuting
attorney sat on his right, and the chief of police stood by with his
arms folded. I and the secretary sat on the left of the judge. A number
of police officers and detectives were standing near the door.
The judge touched his bell and said to the warden:
"Bring in Doña Gabriela Zahara!"
I felt as if I were dying, and instead of looking at the door, I looked
at the judge to see if I could read in his face the solution of this
frightful problem.
I saw him turn livid and clutch his throat with both hands, as if to
stop a cry of agony, and then he turned to me with a look of infinite
supplication.
"Keep quiet!" I whispered, putting my finger on my lips, and then I
added: "I knew it."
The unfortunate man arose from his chair.
"Judge!" I exclaimed, and in that one word I conveyed to him the full
sense of his duty and of the dangers which surrounded him. He
controlled himself and resumed his seat, but were it not for the light
in his eyes, he might have been taken for a dead man. Yes, the man was
dead; only the judge lived.
When I had convinced myself of this, I turned and looked at the
accused. Good God! Gabriela Zahara was not only Blanca, the woman my
friend so deeply loved, but she was also the woman I had met in the
stagecoach and subsequently at Granada, the beautiful South American,
Mercedes!
All these fantastic women had now merged into one, the real one who
stood before us, accused of the murder of her husband and who had been
condemned to die.
There was still a chance to prove herself innocent. Could she do it?
This was my one supreme hope, as it was that of my poor friend.
Gabriela (we will call her now by her real name) was deathly pale, but
apparently calm. Was she trusting to her innocence or to the weakness
of the judge? Our doubts were soon solved. Up to that moment the
accused had looked at no one but the judge. I did not know whether she
desired to encourage him or menace him, or to tell him that his Blanca
could not be an assassin. But noting the impassibility of the
magistrate and that his face was as expressionless as that of a corpse,
she turned to the others, as if seeking help from them. Then her eyes
fell upon me, and she blushed slightly.
The judge now seemed to awaken from his stupor and asked in a harsh
voice:
"What is your name?"
"Gabriela Zahara, widow of Romeral," answered the accused in a soft
voice.
Zarco trembled. He had just learned that his Blanca had never existed;
she told him so herself--she who only three hours before had consented
to become his wife!
Fortunately, no one was looking at the judge, all eyes being fixed upon
Gabriela, whose marvelous beauty and quiet demeanor carried to all an
almost irresistible conviction of her innocence.
The judge recovered himself, and then, like a man who is staking more
than life upon the cast of a die, he ordered the guard to open the
black box.
"Madame!" said the judge sternly, his eyes seeming to dart flames,
"approach and tell me whether you recognize this head?"
At a signal from the judge the guard opened the black box and lifted
out the skull.
A cry of mortal agony rang through that room; one could not tell
whether it was of fear or of madness. The woman shrank back, her eyes
dilating with terror, and screamed: "Alfonzo, Alfonzo!"
Then she seemed to fall into a stupor. All turned to the judge,
murmuring: "She is guilty beyond a doubt."
"Do you recognize the nail which deprived your husband of life?" said
the judge, arising from his chair, looking like a corpse rising from
the grave.
"Yes, sir," answered Gabriela mechanically.
"That is to say, you admit that you assassinated your husband?" asked
the judge, in a voice that trembled with his great suffering.
"Sir," answered the accused, "I do not care to live any more, but
before I die I would like to make a statement."
The judge fell back in his chair and then asked me by a look: "What is
she going to say?"
I, myself, was almost stupefied by fear.
Gabriela stood before them, her hands clasped and a far-away look in
her large, dark eyes.
"I am going to confess," she said, "and my confession will be my
defense, although it will not be sufficient to save me from the
scaffold. Listen to me, all of you! Why deny that which is
self-evident? I was alone with my husband when he died. The servants
and the doctor have testified to this. Hence, only I could have killed
him. Yes, I committed the crime, but another man forced me to do it."
The judge trembled when he heard these words, but, dominating his
emotion, he asked courageously:
"The name of that man, madame? Tell us at once the name of the
scoundrel!"
Gabriela looked at the judge with an expression of infinite love, as a
mother would look at the child she worshiped, and answered: "By a
single word I could drag this man into the depths with me. But I will
not. No one shall ever know his name, for he has loved me and I love
him. Yes, I love him, although I know he will do nothing to save me!"
The judge half rose from his chair and extended his hands beseechingly,
but she looked at him as if to say: "Be careful! You will betray
yourself, and it will do no good."
He sank back into his chair, and Gabriela continued her story in a
quiet, firm voice:
"I was forced to marry a man I hated. I hated him more after I married
him than I did before. I lived three years in martyrdom. One day there
came into my life a man whom I loved. He demanded that I should marry
him, he asked me to fly with him to a heaven of happiness and love. He
was a man of exceptional character, high and noble, whose only fault
was that he loved me too much. Had I told him: 'I have deceived you, I
am not a widow; my husband is living,' he would have left me at once. I
invented a thousand excuses, but he always answered: 'Be my wife!' What
could I do? I was bound to a man of the vilest character and habits,
whom I loathed. Well, I killed this man, believing that I was
committing an act of justice, and God punished me, for my lover
abandoned me. And now I am very, very tired of life, and all I ask of
you is that death may come as quickly as possible."
Gabriela stopped speaking. The judge had buried his face in his hands,
as if he were thinking, but I could see he was shaking like an
epileptic.
"Your honor," repeated Gabriela, "grant my request that I may die
soon."
The judge made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoner.
Before she followed them, she gave me a terrible look in which there
was more of pride than of repentance.
* * * * *
I do not wish to enter into details of the condition of the judge
during the following day. In the great emotional struggle which took
place, the officer of the law conquered the man, and he confirmed the
sentence of death.
On the following day the papers were sent to the Court of Appeals, and
then Zarco came to me and said: "Wait here until I return. Take care of
this unfortunate woman, but do not visit her, for your presence would
humiliate instead of consoling her. Do not ask me whither I am going,
and do not think that I am going to commit the very foolish act of
taking my own life. Farewell, and forgive me all the worry I have
caused you."
Twenty days later the Court of Appeals confirmed the sentence, and
Gabriela Zahara was placed in the death cell.
* * * * *
The morning of the day fixed for the execution came, and still the
judge had not returned. The scaffold had been erected in the center of
the square, and an enormous crowd had gathered. I stood by the door of
the prison, for, while I had obeyed the wish of my friend that I should
not call on Gabriela in her prison, I believed it my duty to represent
him in that supreme moment and accompany the woman he had loved to the
foot of the scaffold.
When she appeared, surrounded by her guards, I hardly recognized her.
She had grown very thin and seemed hardly to have the strength to lift
to her lips the small crucifix she carried in her hand.
"I am here, señora. Can I be of service to you?" I asked her as she
passed by me.
She raised her deep, sunken eyes to mine, and, when she recognized me,
she exclaimed:
"Oh, thanks, thanks! This is a great consolation for me, in my last
hour of life. Father," she added, turning to the priest who stood
beside her, "may I speak a few words to this generous friend?"
"Yes, my daughter," answered the venerable minister.