Rogelio was still laughing at himself at the idea of his engagement when they were nearing the bottom of the stairs, for which reason he neglected to offer DoÑa Aurora his arm, as was his custom. A sudden cry and the sound of a fall froze the blood in his veins as he saw his mother slip and fall headlong down the stairs on the tiled floor of the hall. It is only on supreme occasions that the real depth of our sentiment is revealed to us. Rogelio did not know that there were chords in his larynx or tones in his voice capable of the heart-rending pathos with which he uttered the words:

“Mother! my darling mother!”

He cleared at a bound the steps down which his mother had fallen, and in an instant had her on her feet and was holding her in his arms and pressing her to his heart, examining her wildly to assure himself that she was not dead and that she had no bones broken. Suddenly he uttered a terrified cry.

“Blood, mamma! you are bleeding. Where are you bleeding? Here. Good heavens, blood!”

Her head had struck against the edge of one of the steps, and the wound was bleeding slightly. Half stunned as SeÑora de PardiÑas was by the force of the blow, the agonized voice of her son recalled her to herself, and she answered faintly:

“Don’t be frightened, child; it is nothing; you may believe me, it is nothing. I am a little better now.”

“There is no one in the porter’s room. I am going upstairs to get some vinegar—some water——”

“No, child, no, for Heaven’s sake. Don’t call any one; make no disturbance. Help me gently to the carriage. For illness or the like, the best place is home.”

Trembling, and covered with a cold sweat, Rogelio assisted his mother to the carriage, into which he lifted her bodily, and then made her lean back in a corner while he fanned her with his handkerchief, thinking, with terror, “Can there have been any injury to the brain?”

“Home—drive slowly,” he said to the coachman, who had turned round curious to know what had happened. And unable to control himself, he threw his arms around his mother, putting the question usual in such cases:

“But mamma, how did you fall?”

“I don’t know, child. My foot slipped; it must have been the heels of the new shoes; or my foot may have caught in the flounce of my dress.”

“It was my fault not to have given you my arm. I am a brute. Where does it pain you? How do you feel now, mamma?”

“I don’t know; I think I am going to faint,” answered his mother, in a weak voice.

And indeed she looked as if she were going to faint, to judge from the cold perspiration and the deathly pallor that overspread her face. Rogelio, greatly alarmed, was on the point of calling out to the coachman to drive to an apothecary’s when his mother revived a little and made signs to him that she was better, and the carriage rolled on toward the house. When Rogelio, assisted by the footman, was helping his mother out of the carriage, she uttered a cry.

“Where do you feel pain?” Rogelio asked her.

“In this leg. There, don’t be frightened. It is nothing.”

When Esclavita was informed of what had occurred, she hastened to her mistress without useless outcries, and quickly and skillfully loosened her clothing, applied vinegar to her temples, and afterward undressed her and put her comfortably to bed. DoÑa Aurora complained of a desire to retch, of heaviness, of oppression, of continued nausea, and an inclination to vomit—all which made the student say to himself with terror, “My God! there is concussion of the brain.” He called Esclavita apart and said to her hurriedly: “Take care of her, I am going to Sanchez del Abrojo and I will not come back without him.”

In effect, he returned with him after a delay of two hours, and the distinguished physician, having made a careful examination of the patient, and a minute and skillful investigation into the manner of the fall, was obliged to acknowledge that there had been a little, a very little, cerebral congestion. The only treatment he prescribed was rest in bed, and diet until the disturbance in the stomach should be settled. The other injuries were of little consequence—the lesion on the forehead did not go beyond the skin; the contusion on the left leg was no more than a bruise of little importance. In short, it was nothing. All she required was rest.

To carry out the physician’s orders, then took place that revolution in the habits of the household, and that transformation in the aspect of the house itself, which sickness always brings with it. The household concentrated itself within the narrow limits of the bedroom and dressing-room of the patient. Rogelio and Esclavita took up their station there—the former receiving the visitors; the latter changing the cloths wet with arnica, bringing cups of lime-leaf tea, burning lavender, and undertaking whispered commissions and receiving keys slipped into her hand secretly. “Don’t let the boy want for anything. Remember to warm his bed.” To these recommendations, which Esclavita listened to with religious attention, followed suppressed groans. “Oh, how this wretched leg hurts me. My head is splitting with pain!”

Esclavita performed her duties as sick nurse with that earnest and silent assiduity which she always displayed when employed in the service of others. She came and went with noiseless footsteps and without rustling of garments. She took charge of everything, and if she was absent for a moment from the bedroom it was because she was in the kitchen, compounding some potion. She even managed to get time to give Rogelio his dinner, without neglecting her mistress; but no one knew at what hour she herself had taken food on that memorable day.

When the night was advanced and every one had retired, she trimmed a lamp carefully and set it on the floor so that the light should not disturb the patient. She then placed a low chair at the head of the bed and seated herself in it. As Rogelio, who was sitting in an easy-chair in the dressing-room, made no motion to retire, she went to him and whispered to him, in tones of entreaty, “Go to bed, SeÑorito; don’t stay here.” The patient, who had begun to doze, overheard the words and added her entreaties to Esclavita’s, saying, “Child, do go to bed. You are not accustomed to sitting up; it will injure your health. Don’t be foolish; go to bed. Esclavita is taking the best possible care of me.” But it was impossible to persuade Rogelio, and they compromised the matter by deciding that a temporary bed should be made for him on the floor. The little Galician, displaying extraordinary strength, brought in two mattresses, beat the pillows noiselessly, and as noiselessly made up the bed. Rogelio divested himself of his coat and waistcoat only, and thus, half dressed, lay down. Then only did he begin to feel the extreme exhaustion which follows great shocks and profound emotions. At the same time a comical recollection crossed his mind.

“And my sweetheart,” he said to himself, “will she be at the window to-morrow to see me pass by?”