Now, Don Duarte was not a man to give up easily, and he was determined to wed the lovely Margarita. So one night, he waited on the old stone bridge. When Padre Juan returned from visiting an ailing farmer, the young man begged the priest to talk with him. The priest, always anxious to believe that there was hope for every sinner, listened as the young man promised to mend his ways. He swore that he would prove a loving, respectable husband, if only the priest would permit him to wed Margarita.

But Padre Juan, who had seen the best and worst in the human heart, felt that the words, which came so easily to the young man were lies. He sensed that there was no honesty, no love, no change in Don Duarte. Even Padre Juan’s generous heart recoiled from what he saw of the man’s true nature. Politely but firmly, the priest refused Don Duarte’s pleading.

Seeing that his appeal had failed, and enraged to think that he might lose the woman he had set his heart upon, Don Duarte drew his dagger and plunged it almost to the hilt into the skull of Padre Juan. Without a sound, the old priest fell dead upon the stones of the bridge.

Because the dagger, with its ornate handle, would easily be recognized as his, Don Duarte began to pull on it. But no matter how hard he tugged, he could not budge the blade. Frantic to hide his crime, he tossed the body, with the dagger still in place, off the bridge and into the water. Then he fled into the night.

The disappearance of Padre Juan caused a great stir throughout the Valley of Mexico. Santiago and the countryside were searched, but no trace of the priest was found.

Don Duarte, knowing that he could not approach Margarita during the time of mourning, gave himself over even more completely to his reckless, wicked life. But thoughts of Margarita inflamed him. He decided he would visit her. If he could not persuade her to run away with him, he would carry her off.

Don Duarte returned to Santiago on a stormy night. Heavy clouds were split by bursts of lightning. Rain began to fall in great drops as Don Duarte, his cloak wrapped tightly about him, splashed along the rain-slick causeway.

When he reached the stone bridge, he heard a strange scraping noise ahead of him. But try as he might, he could see nothing in the rain-swept darkness. Then a flash of lightning revealed a tall skeleton, wrapped in a torn and soaked cassock, coming toward him step by step. Sticking out of the skull at a grotesque angle was the murderer’s now-rusty dagger.

Don Duarte turned to flee, but it was too late.

At dawn , a farmer crossing the bridge on his way to market found a gruesome sight. Sprawled in a puddle was the body of Don Duarte, an expression of absolute terror on his face. Beside his body, its bony hands locked around his throat, was a weather-beaten skeleton, still clothed in a tattered cassock. A rusty dagger jutted out of its skull, and its jaws were frozen in a horrible grin.