CHAPTER XIV.

PALLIDA MORS.

When the carriage stopped, Don Mariano perceived by the face of the servant who came to open the door that nothing very delightful had occurred during his absence.

"The señora?" he asked in alarm.

"The señora is in bed."

"Oh, I might have known it! How could the poor soul have had strength to resist this blow!"

The faces of the other servants whom they met on the way had the same expression of silent solemnity, and this greatly increased his agitation. Maria followed him. When they reached Doña Gertrudis's room, they saw that there were a number of people in it who, on catching sight of them, came toward them with a warning gesture.

"What! Is she so ill?" exclaimed the unhappy Don Mariano, in a hoarse, trembling voice.

"She is not very ill," said an officious lady: "but it is better that you should not enter so suddenly, for a powerful excitement might be bad for her. She has had a number of attacks since last night, and finds herself rather weak.... Let me prepare her."

The lady, in fact, went to tell Doña Gertrudis that her daughter was at liberty, and would soon be back to Nieva.

"My daughter is here!" cried the invalid, with that wonderful instinct of mothers and hysterical women.... Yes, she is here!... I know she is!... I see her.... Come, my daughter, come!"

And at the same time she made a desperate effort to sit up in bed. Maria entered her bedchamber, and kneeling beside the bed respectfully kissed the hands which her mother extended to her.

"Forgive me, mamma! forgive me for the anxiety which I caused you.... You were made ill because of me, but the Lord will soon make you well...."

"No, my daughter; you have done nothing that needs my forgiveness; you have done what God commanded.... It made me ill ... that is true ... but it is because I have not virtue enough, as you have, to suffer the trials God imposes upon us.... You are a saint.... I shall be well.... Don't worry about me.... What frightens me now is, that I did not die when I saw you marching off that way, among soldiers.... My poor daughter.... Come, give me a kiss!"

When Maria entered the bedroom, Ricardo and Marta were there; the girl seated near the pillow, and Ricardo at the foot of the bed. The young marquis, on learning at the factory that Maria was arrested, had asked the colonel to be relieved that night of guard duty, and his request being granted, he hastened to the Elorza mansion just as Don Mariano and his daughter were outside of the town. Doña Gertrudis was in the midst of a very severe fit, from which it was feared that she would not recover; she came to herself but only to fall immediately into another. What an anxious night! Don Maximo and the Señora de Ciudad remained with poor little Marta to watch by the sick woman. Ricardo likewise was unwilling to leave the house. The girl appreciating that her mother's health and life depended on her behavior, kept up her courage, and did not cease to busy herself about the bed, entering and leaving the room hundreds of times. As soon as Don Maximo gave an order she fulfilled it with admirable exactness. A multitude of remedies requiring much skill and some practice were taken: mustard poultices, leeches, assafoetida washes, various applications to the temples, etc., etc. Marta would not consent for any servant to touch her mother; she did everything herself without bustle, without noise, as though all her life she had done nothing else. During the intervals of rest she sat by the bedside and watched the invalid's face with anxious eyes. The bedroom was feebly lighted by a lamp half turned down in the hall; a strong smell of drugs and medicines arose from the vials accumulated on the dressing-table; but Marta was not nauseated by any of the odors; her head was steady and her never-failing health was the envy of all the household. Ricardo likewise sometimes sat at the invalid's feet. The girl scarcely saw more than his silhouette outlined against the brighter opening of the door, but this was a great comfort to her. She was not alone; Ricardo was not a stranger. Sometimes when the invalid asked for something and both arose in haste to give it to her, if their hands met, Marta withdrew hers hurriedly, as though she had touched a viper, and she let her friend minister to Doña Gertrudis. Neither spoke. Marta, forgetful of herself, thought only of her mother. Ricardo, more egotistical, thought of Maria. The girl's whole soul was wrapped up in the dear being painfully breathing by her side, and without making the slightest error, with the accuracy of a chronometer, she counted her pulse and watched her respiration. Don Maximo and the Señora de Ciudad were whispering in the adjoining room, as though they were making confession. The lady was explaining to the old doctor the character and temperament of each one of her daughters; the conversation was long. In the course of nine hours the sick woman had four severe attacks, leaving her so prostrated that the doctor seriously feared a fatal result. Nevertheless, after the fourth, she remained comparatively comfortable, and passed the day quite easily. The danger, in spite of this, continued.

After the first moments of effusion were over, Maria called her sister aside into a corner of the room.

"Tell me; has mamma made confession?"

"No."

"And why didn't you call the priest?... Didn't you perceive that she was in danger?"

The truth was, Marta had scarcely thought of doing such a thing. Besides, she was afraid of frightening her mother, and thought that this might be bad for her. In the bottom of her heart, likewise, there was a great terror of that tremendous scene, and she wanted to banish it from her mind. Maria chided her severely for her negligence, bringing before her the terrible responsibility which she would have incurred had her mother died. Marta saw that she was right, and hung her head. She sent instantly to summon Doña Gertrudis's confessor, and Maria undertook to prepare her mother. Wonder of wonders! Doña Gertrudis, who during her life had asked an infinite number of times to have her confessor summoned, now felt overwhelmed with surprise and fear when her daughter told her that she must get ready. Possibly the fact was, that when she had asked for it, she harbored the conviction that there was no real danger of death, while now she understood that matters were really serious. At all events, her daughter's words made a great impression upon her, and she raised all the objection in her power against receiving him, urging as an excuse that she felt better; that when there should be danger, she would herself call for him.

Maria opposed this delay, and found herself under the cruel necessity of clearly explaining to the invalid the seriousness of her situation. Doña Gertrudis yielded, but her face betrayed a great discouragement.

When the priest arrived he was left alone with her, all retiring from the apartment. Marta went to weep alone in her room, so as not to sadden her father; he did the same, so as not to frighten his daughters. Maria watched at the door for the signal that the pious act was accomplished. At last the priest left the room, and, with the mask of solemnity which all daily witnesses of death-scenes are obliged to assume, hiding the real indifference, logically caused by such familiarity, he said to those who were waiting:--

"You can enter: we have finished."

"How is she?" was the question of each one.

"Well!... well!... well!... The poor woman is calm.... I believe that for her to receive the Divine Majesty will be good for her, as well for the body as for the soul."

"That is true.... You are right, Señor Cura," said several ladies.

"I have seen in my own family a very notable case of the power of faith," declared one of them. "My uncle Pepe had a very serious lung trouble, confirmed consumption. He had consulted a multitude of physicians, and had taken more than a cartload of medicine. Well, then it was suggested that, unless he were prepared to die, he would not recover. He had the priest called, made confession, received the viaticum, and even wanted to have extreme unction.... But from that very time, I don't know what it was, but it is a fact that he became more comfortable, and began to improve ... to improve ... to improve, until at last he became what you see him to-day."

The other women confirmed this opinion. Each one related her experience in support of it, and the priest summed up all the arguments, showing that such miraculous effects were nothing more than was to be expected, granting that the sick person's body received the presence of the Lord of the Heaven and earth, in whose hands is the safety of all mankind.

At eleven o'clock in the evening, they brought the viaticum to Doña Gertrudis with all the ceremony required by such a solemn act. The house of Elorza was filled with strange faces; a throng composed for the most part of working people invaded the stairway, the corridors, and even the invalid's sick-room, with wax tapers in their hands. The priest, with the acolyte before him, and the holy box on his breast, passed by the physician, and entered the sick-room. Don Mariano had gone to hide himself. Maria, with a book of devotions in her hand, read to her mother the prayers which were to be said before communion. Marta stood leaning against the wall, pale and frightened, gazing at the solemn ceremony, as though she saw some terrible vision. One of the women, who made their way into the room, handed her a lighted candle, and she took it without knowing what she did. When the priest brought forth the Holy Wafer, they had to tell her to kneel. The scene was sad and stirring for any one: how much more for a daughter! The wax candles lugubriously sputtered in the silence of the sick-room, and cast tremulous yellow reflections on the walls. The voice of the priest, as he raised the Host, was still more lugubrious than the sputtering of the tapers. The invalid, weakened by her illness, had grown terribly pale from emotion; she sat up as well as she could and, supported by Maria, and with her hands folded over her breast, she opened her mouth to receive the body of Jesus Christ. Then the bystanders went out softly, and on the staircase was heard the vibrating tinkle of the sacristan's little bell, announcing that the Lord was departing from the house. Only the intimate friends remained. A group of ladies invaded the sick woman's room to congratulate her, and to ask after her health. Doña Gertrudis said that she was more comfortable; and, taking her daughter Maria's hand, she thanked her for having given her the pleasure of communion. Her recovery was to be hoped for; all the ladies found her very much like herself, and assured her that it would not be long before she was well.

"God can do all things, Doña Gertrudis. When one's accounts are settled with the Lord, there is no fear of any harm befalling. Nothing, this is nothing, señora; you will see how you will soon recover."

"I have offered a mass to the Sacred Christ of Tunis for the day on which our señora shall get well," said Genoveva, Maria's maid.

"Woman, why did you not offer it to the Ecce Homo of Mercy?" asked an old laundress of the house, in some surprise. She had always lighted the lamp before the said Ecce Homo, and kept the chapel clean, so that she came to look upon it as her own property.

"Ay, woman! because the Holy Christ of Tunis is more miraculous."

"A cuckold on _him_," exclaimed the washerwoman, quickly, with angry eyes.

A furious altercation arose between the two, until Maria was scandalized, and bade them be still, explaining that the Christ of Tunis and of Grace was one and the same Lord, though every Christian was free to have the most faith in whatever image he pleased.

At last the ladies withdrew, leaving only two,--the widow De Delgado and one of her sisters,--to spend the night with the young ladies. Don Maximo went to rest awhile, promising to return before long. The confessor did not wish to leave the house because he saw no improvement in his penitent, and he threw himself down on the sofa. Ricardo likewise remained.

At two o'clock what Don Maximo feared took place. The attack was renewed, and unfortunately with such violence that the unhappy lady very narrowly escaped passing away in it. Marta, on seeing the danger, recovered the activity which she lost before the lugubrious ceremony of the communion; she prepared all the medicines; she rubbed the sick woman's feet with a flesh-brush; she held her upright a long time, so that she might not choke to death, and acted as Don Maximo had prescribed in the former cases. All those who touched Doña Gertrudis hurt her; only Martita's soft hands had the privilege of moving her from side to side, and placing her in the most comfortable positions without causing her pain. Finally the sick woman came to herself and spoke, but Don Maximo, hastily summoned by the servants, found her pulse so feeble on his arrival that he could not help making a slight gesture of alarm. Marta noticed that gesture, and calling him alone into the passage-way, she threw her arms around his neck, sobbing: "Don Maximo, my dearest, for God's sake, save my mother!... yes, my mother is dying!... yes ... she is dying.... I saw your gesture...."

"Don't cry, child,"[69] said the old physician, drawing her head to his breast; "as yet there is no reason for alarm.... I will certainly do all in my power, and more, to save her."

"Yes, yes, Don Maximo.... Do it, I beseech you by all that you most love in this world!... by the memory of your wife, whom you loved so dearly!"

"Don't! try not to cry any more! the thing to do now is to go and give her a spoonful of quinine; then we will put a cataplasm on her stomach."

The good Don Maximo, disguising the presentiment which he felt, succeeded in calming the girl, and he set himself to applying the remedies which his poor science but rich desire suggested.

But he was not able to halt the swift approach of death which in full career was fast approaching the noble lady's couch. At four o'clock in the morning they noticed that she spoke with greater difficulty; her pronunciation halted, and she often stammered. Almost all her words were directed to Maria, asking her numberless times about the events of the preceding night, and insisting on being told, showering boundless praise on her for her bravery, and congratulating herself on having such a good daughter.

"My daughter, beseech God for my safety.... God cannot ... deny thee anything."

"Maria, perceiving that her mother was dying, replied:

"Mamma, the one important thing is the safety of the soul.... If God wishes to restore you, let it be a miracle to you of his sacred grace...."

"But ... am I dying ... my daughter?"

"God only can tell.... Do you wish the señor cura to come in and give you a short confession?"

"Yes ... let him come in ... my daughter, let him come in!"

The priest came, and remained a few moments alone with the sick woman. Those who were in the adjoining room kept a sad silence. Don Mariano lying on a sofa, with his cheek resting in one hand, shut his eyes and gave evidence of deep dejection. After the priest had finished, Marta, Maria, Ricardo, and Don Maximo returned. Doña Gertrudis's condition grew continually more critical. There began to be noticeable in her a restlessness of bad augury; she turned her head from one side to the other as though she could not find a resting-place, as though she were already searching for the pillow on which she was to repose eternally. Her vacillating hands picked up and dropped the bedclothes incessantly, while her eyes also restlessly rolled in their orbits, fastening, from time to time, on the ceiling of the room; it seemed as though she found no one on whom to rest them. Soon Martita noticed that her hands were cold, and she mentioned the fact aloud, in a simple manner, without appreciating its unfortunate significance. Don Maximo turned away his head to hide his emotion; the priest let his fall on his breast.

"I feel ... very well ... now," she said to Maria, raising her daughter's hand to her lips. "As soon as I ... I am well ... we will go ... to Lourdes ... together ... will we not?... It is very ... pretty ... is it that one?... very pretty ... very pretty.... If you knew ... what I see now!... The Virgin ... the Virgin coming ... surrounded by stars.... Put on my ... velvet dress ... to receive her.... Come ... quick ... quick.... Don't you see ... I am entering by the door?... Ay! what trials!... Good day, Señora.... I have a daughter ... who much resembles you.... She has a fair complexion ... and blue eyes ... very beautiful!... very beautiful!"

A slight hoarseness began to choke the sick woman's throat; the last words were rather breathed than spoken; it was a dry, sharp huskiness constantly growing more pronounced. The confessor hearing it made a sign to Maria, and she quickly took a silver image of Christ hanging on the wall, and put it in her mother's hand, saying:--

"Mamma, think on the Lord.... Think of what the Divine Saviour suffered for us."

"I ... am not ... dying," said the invalid.

"Yes, mamma ... yes ... you are dying," replied the young woman with kindled face, full of fear and anguish, fearing that she was not well prepared. "Repent of the sins that you have committed!... You do repent, and ask forgiveness of God for them, don't you?"

"Yes ... yes," murmured the invalid.

"Repeat the creed with me!" said the confessor, assuming a more solemn tone: "I believe in God the Father Almighty ... maker of heaven ... and earth...."

Doña Gertrudis repeated the priest's words clumsily, and as though she were not heeding what she did. She looked at the ceiling with strange persistence, while the features of her countenance were rapidly changing; a purple circle was drawn around her eyes, and her nostrils became strangely pinched. When the priest was done she again began to address Maria.

"The truth ... is ... that I have ... no hat ... fit to make the journey ... to Lourdes in.... Those that I ... have ... are ... very old-fashioned.... Do me ... the favor ... to write to Luisa ... and have her ... send me one ... in the newest style.... You also ... need a dress.... Attend to it, my daughter ... attend to it."

"Mamma, leave the vanities of the world.... Think on God.... Consider that you are going to appear very soon in his presence."

"No ... no.... I am not dying."

"Ay, mamma, by the Holy Virgin, I beg you to feel that you are going to die.... Think on your salvation!"

"I am thinking about it ... yes ... I am thinking about it," said the invalid mechanically.

The priest began to read from a book the Commendation of the Soul in Latin. All knelt. Then the dying woman, raising her head a little, asked:--

"Why are you all kneeling?"

"To recommend you to God, mamma," replied Maria.

And getting up and putting her face near her mother's, she continued in a whisper:--

"Say with me, mamma: '_My Jesus_....'"

The mother repeated listlessly: "My Jesus."

_"By thy most sacred passion."_

"By thy most sacred ... passion."

_"By the innumerable pains that thou hast suffered."_

"By the in ... numerable ... pains."

"_That thou hast suffered_," repeated Maria.

"That thou hast suffered."

_"Pardon thou my offences."_

"Pardon thou ... my offences."

_"And save my soul."_

"That'll do, that'll do!" said the dying woman, pushing her daughter away with her trembling hand. "No, I am not dying.... I am well.... Come here, Martita.... It isn't true ... that I am ... dying ... is it, daughter?"

"No, mamma," replied the girl, pressing her hands. "You are not dying, mamita; no.... You must get well soon, and we will go to drive in the carriage as we used ... now the weather is fine."

"Yes, loveliest, yes.... We will go ... wait ... lift me a little.... I am uncomfortable in this position."

Marta helped her to sit up; but as she did so her mother's eyes rested upon her, fixed, motionless, terrible. That look smote the poor girl to the depths of her heart, and uttering a frightful, piercing cry, she let her fall back on the pillow. The Señora de Elorza's head relaxed as though the neck were dislocated, with open mouth and rigid lips; and still from the pillow her great glassy eyes continued to follow her daughter with the same fixed and terrifying gaze.

"Mother of my heart!" cried the girl, instantly throwing her arms around her. "Do not look at me so, for God's sake! Mamita mia, do not look at me so. Ay! do not look at me so. Ay! how you terrify me!... Mamita! mamita!... Ay! O God, what is it?"

Don Mariano, who, on hearing the cry, had hurried into the bedchamber with anxious face, and hair standing on end, tried to draw his daughter from the corpse.

"Come away! my soul's daughter, now you have no longer a mother!"

"Yes, I have her.... Yes ... here she is.... Mamma! Mamita! You are here, are you not?... Answer me!... Speak!... Kiss me, for God's sake, mamita!... Let go of me, papa!... Let go of me!... Now she is going to kiss me.... Wait a moment, for God's sake!... Let go of me, papa darling!... Let her kiss me!"

The girl had embraced the dead body of her mother with extraordinary force, and covered it with eager loud kisses. Don Mariano, terribly excited, almost beside himself, pulled her away brutally, as though the welfare of all depended upon wrenching her from that position. Maria, kneeling in one corner of the room, had lifted her eyes and her hands to heaven, and was praying for the eternal glory of the departed.

At last they succeeded in dragging Marta away, and took her to another room. Without intending it at all, they caused her great harm. The unhappy girl had not sufficiently mastered her grief; by taking her away they choked the fountain of her tears, and they did not flow again. Pale, completely altered, with eyes fixed on vacancy, she neither listened to what was said to her, nor was willing to take what was given to calm her. She did nothing else but repeat incessantly, in a low, somewhat hoarse voice:--

"Mamma.... Mamma.... Mamma!"

The priest went to her, and said:--

"My daughter, calm yourself, calm yourself. It is a test which God sends you that you may show your resignation. Instead of rebelling against His will, you ought to thank Him for His remembrance of you, showing that He loves you...."

"Don't say foolish things!" exclaimed the girl, in an angry voice, casting upon him a look of scorn. "Is that a proof of God's love, that he has taken away my mother?... Then that's a fine kind of love!... a fine kind of love ... a fine kind of love!"

Marta kept repeating the expression over and over again for some time, in a tone of irritation. When she had calmed down a little the priest said once more,--

"My daughter, you should take example of your sister. She feels her misfortune as much as you, but she is giving proof of Christian resignation and fortitude.... She does not rebel: she acknowledges the working of the Almighty hand, and with her prayers is contributing to the greater happiness and glory of her who is no more."

Marta saw that the priest was right; she repented of her anger and hung her head, murmuring,--

"Oh, my sister is a saint!"

"You also can be one, my daughter. The road to perfection is open to all who wish to follow it...."

The girl received the counsels of the priest and of the others who were with him, but did not answer a word. She continued in the same way, not moving a finger, her face pale and distorted, and her eyes fixed. Her indifference began to cause them anxiety, and they told her father. The instant Don Mariano entered the room, she felt a shock, and suddenly jumping up she threw herself into his arms sobbing bitterly. She was saved.

The friends of the family, by dint of strong pressure, made Don Mariano and Martita go and rest for a few minutes, while the proper arrangements were made for laying out the body and for the funeral. Maria remained praying in her mother's room. The pale rays of the dawn found her still on her knees, with her face turned to heaven. The wax tapers which she herself had taken care to place around the deathbed were burning funereally, their crude yellow beams struggling with the languid light pouring into the room. No one dared to call her from her devout meditations; those who penetrated into the dressing-room and saw her in that attitude, whispered a few words of surprise, and retired silently with emotion and admiration.

Finally, all the outside people went away, and Maria shut herself in her room to take the rest which she so much needed, after the cruel series of changes and the great labors that she had undergone during the last few hours. At noon the father and his two daughters met in the dining-room, to begin the melancholy meal which all who have experienced a family affliction will recall with horror: a meal in which tears mingle with the food, and sobs fill the long intervals of silence. At this first meal scarcely any one spoke; no one ventured to lift his eyes lest they should meet those of the others, and only furtive, grief-stricken glances were cast at the place left vacant by the being who had just fled from this world forever. The courses were eaten mechanically, without appetite, and handkerchiefs were lifted to the eyes oftener than napkins to the lips; the rattle of the dishes cruelly wounded their ears, and the rare words exchanged fell from their lips tremulously and without animation. The spirit protested dumbly against the brutal necessity imposed upon it by the body, obliging it, by such a wretched act, to give over the expression of its bitter grief and break the current of its melancholy thoughts.

They arose from the table in the same silence. Maria shut herself in her room again. Don Mariano, accompanied by Martita, likewise went to his. They sat down together on a sofa, with their arms closely clasped about each other for the larger part of the afternoon; the caresses which they bestowed upon each other gradually changed their desperate sorrow into a most tender feeling, melting into tears. They took turns in consoling each other; the girl declared that her mother in heaven would be on the watch for them all, and promised to be always good and prudent, and never to cause her father sorrow; the father pressed her to his heart, and blessed her mother for having given him such good and beautiful daughters. When a servant came to tell them of the call of some ladies, they felt an unspeakable annoyance, a painful impression, as though they had been wakened from some melancholy sweet sorrow to plunge into despair again.

Don Mariano suspected the motive of the call. They wanted to distract their attention, so that they might not notice the noise made by the men in carrying the body from the house. And, in fact, a group of ladies and a few gentlemen endeavored, by repeated entreaties, to persuade them to go to more retired apartments; but their efforts, as far as Don Mariano was concerned, were in vain; he strenuously urged his friends, in a tone which gave no chance for reply, to leave him alone as they had done, but to take Martita with them.

Alone with his grief the Señor de Elorza felt more keenly his loss and more deeply his misfortune. In youth there is scarcely any loss that is not reparable; the passions, the feelings are more intense, but at the same time more transitory. One lives for the future, and through the darkest and most furious storms there never fails to shine some bright spot, promising consolation. But at the age which our caballero had reached hope is no more; the future exists not. Every misfortune undergone is a new pain, coming to join those that are past, and waiting for those that are to come: the affections which perish, like the hair that falls, find no substitute. Don Mariano, with eyes closed and head sadly bent upon his breast, let his thoughts fly back over all the events of his long life, and in all of them, whether fortunate or unlucky, he saw the image of his wife, the inseparable companion of his manhood. He saw her awakening in his youthful heart a passion at once tender and ardent: beautiful and pure as an angel, with delicate oval face and blue eyes, looking at him with love. He remembered perfectly the few times when he had had lover's quarrels with her, and the little reason that there had been for almost all of them. Gertrudis had such a peaceable disposition and such a gentle nature. It always ended in making her weep. He saw her on the day of his marriage, in her black satin (she was still in mourning for her father, the Marqués de Revollar) with which the fairness of her complexion and the gold of her hair made a dazzling contrast. A distinguished gentleman of Madrid, present at the wedding, taking him into a corner of the drawing-room, said to him: "Elorza, you are marrying one of the most beautiful women of Spain. I tell you so, and I have seen many in my life." The same day he started on a journey through foreign lands. He remembered, as though it were but yesterday, the intoxicating, ineffable impression, perhaps the sweetest and most blissful of his life, that he felt when he suddenly found himself alone with his beloved, as the coachman whipped up his horses, and they heard the farewells of the relations and friends, who sped them from the door of the palace of Revollar. How the poor little girl blushed when she realized that they were alone, and she in her lover's power! But he was polite and generous. He merely asked for one hand, and raised it timidly to his lips. All the enchanting details of that journey were imprinted on the Señor de Elorza's memory. Then he remembered the strange sensation of pleasure and surprise which he felt at the birth of his first child, and the deliciously cruel impression which his wife made upon him, by keeping him rigorously away from her during those moments of anguish. But, ay! in a short time poor Gertrudis became an invalid, and never recovered perfect health. In spite of this, his love for her had never grown cool; he took the greatest care of her, endeavoring, by all the means in his power, to alleviate her sufferings. She appreciated his sacrifices, seeing in him a Providence who always soothed her by his caresses. Even after many years had gone by, and when no one at all took any notice of the good lady's tribulations, still Don Mariano was the one who pitied her most, though he made believe look upon her attacks with disdain, and she comprehended it perfectly, and she still reserved for him in her heart the same privileged place as in her youth. The harmony of generous, warm sentiments in both, the affection which they had lavished upon their daughters, the deep esteem which they mutually felt, and the ever vivid recollection of their passionate loves, had been so woven into life that neither of them understood it without being side by side. It was the intimate, perfect, and absolute union ordained by God, such as men rarely heed.

A melancholy, ominous noise, heard through the walls of his room, caused him to raise his head, and fix his eyes on space. Yes, there could be no doubt; they were carrying her away, carrying her away. Don Mariano flung himself, face down, on the sofa, and hid his face in the cushions to choke his sobs.

"My wife! wife of my heart!... They are carrying you away ... carrying you away forever!... Ay! how terrible!"

And the good caballero's tears soaked through the texture of the damask, and his athletic form shook convulsively because of his sobs. Then he felt a great curiosity, that terrible curiosity which exerts a fascination at such moments, and leaves an indelible mark on the memory of him who has satisfied it. He waited attentively and soon heard the heavy shuffling of feet, and after a little the funereal, heart-rending song of the clergy almost under the balconies. Then he got up quickly, and cautiously lifted one of the curtains. And he saw the coffin, the black, gilded coffin, borne like a boat above the throng. The sky was cloudy and gray, leaving the great plaza of Nieva in shadow. The surging multitude extended to the farthest corners, moving with a slow and measured tread. And the boat, preceded by a great silver cross between two lighted candles, was borne away, carrying from him for evermore his treasure.

He let the curtain drop and once more flung himself on the sofa, muttering incoherent words. He knew not how long he remained thus. The light was fading, leaving the room in shadow, and everything was silent.... Everything except his thoughts, which spoke to him ceaselessly, and the sobs which broke from his breast.

And thus he remained a long time, a long time. At last he perceived that the door of his room was softly opening; he turned his head and saw his daughter Maria. She came and sat silently beside him. But he, as though having a presentiment of a new sorrow, asked her no question, said nothing. He merely took her hand and closed his eyes again.

"Papa," said the young woman after a long period of silence, "we have suffered a fearful misfortune, one of those misfortunes which cause even the most sceptical to turn their eyes to heaven in search of consolation. God alone possesses the key to them; He knows their reason, and is able to turn them into a result advantageous for us. This misfortune has confirmed me in a resolution which I made some time since, to consecrate myself to God forever.... I know by a thousand signs that He calls me, and I should be truly ungrateful if I did not obey His call.... I am useless in the world.... All its amusements weary me; thus, then, I make no sacrifice in confining myself in a convent.... Besides, there I can better pray for you and be more useful to you than here.... The idea of matrimony, which you have desired for me, is repugnant to my heart, where fortunately there has sprung up another and purer love which is immortal.... This resolution ought not to surprise you.... I believe that you ought not to feel it.... At this solemn moment in which afflictions weigh down upon you, perhaps it may be a consolation to you to know that you are going to have a daughter safeguarded from all deceit, from all disloyalty, who is living happily in the service of God and praying for you."

Maria had spoken with frequent pauses, as though she expected her father to interrupt her. But she ended, and still there passed a long period of silence without his opening his lips. At last the young woman asked him, timidly,--

"Have you nothing to say to me, papa?"

"Nothing," he replied, without looking at her.

"But do you give me your consent to do as I said?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I knew you would!... You are so good ... and sufficiently religious.... You are not like other fathers who are blinded, and would rather their daughters were exposed to the dangers of the world than be forever servants of the Lord, in the safe precincts of a holy house.... Thanks, papa, thanks.... I was afraid ... it is true, I was afraid that you would not approve my resolution.... But God has touched your heart.... Now I will leave you.... Marta is waiting for me.... Adios, papa!.... Let me kiss you.... Adios!"

And the door opened and shut again softly. The Señor de Elorza remained motionless in the same position in which his daughter left him, sitting with his hands clasped and his head bent on his breast.

The room remained in darkness. The noises outside slowly died away. An immense, keen, cruel grief palpitated in that lonely room, and a pair of fixed, stupefied, tearless eyes reflected the few rays of light that still wandered lost in the atmosphere.

How long did he remain so?

Perhaps the little birds that came at dawn to perch on the bars of the balconies might reply. But the pallor of his cheeks, the livid circles around his eyes, and the deep wrinkles in his brow, doubtless more exactly told.