THE news spread quickly through the village that the daughter of the fisherman had been assassinated. Thus this egotist, this rustic, this stupid Momo, thanks to his evil spirit, and his bad instincts, took what he saw at the theatre for reality, and he not only made a useless journey, because he had not accomplished his mission, but his folly led all the good people into an error.

The face of Don Modesto lengthened amazingly. The cura said a mass for the soul of Marisalada. Ramon Perez put a black ribbon on his guitar.

Rosa Mistica said to Don Modesto—

“God pardon her! I predicted that she would end badly. Do you remember that the more pains I took to make her go the right way, the more obstinate she was in going the wrong?”

Old Maria, calculating that this catastrophe prevented the arrival of Don Frederico, decided to confide the cure of Pedro to a young physician who had taken the place of Stein at Villamar.

“I do not know much of his science,” she said to Don Modesto, who recommended this Esculapius to her; “he knows only how to order medicinal drinks, and there is nothing which more weakens the stomach. For nourishment he prescribes chicken broth. Will you tell me what strength such a beverage can give? All is topsy-turvy, my commandant. But all this will come right in the future, and experience will always be experience.”

The doctor found Pedro very ill; he declared he was anxious to prepare for his death.

Maria could not hear this news without weeping bitterly; she called Manuel, and charged him with the painful mission to announce his approaching death to Pedro, with every possible precaution.

“Believe me,” she said, “I would never have the courage to do it.”

Manuel set off to visit the patient.

“Hallo! Pedro,” he said to him, “how are you?”

“I am sinking, Manuel,” replied the invalid: “if you have any commands for the other world, tell me immediately: I am about to weigh anchor, my son.”

“Come! Pedro, this is not so. You will live longer than I; and, as the proverb says—”

“Do not finish, Manuel,” replied Pedro without moving. “Say to your mother that I am ready. It is now a long time since I have felt my last moment approaching. I think only of that—and of her!” he added, in a broken voice.

Manuel went away with his eyes filled with tears, although he had seen, during his military life, much bloodshed, and painful agonies.

The following day there was one of those terrible storms which the equinox usually brings. The wind whistled in every variety of tone. One could believe he heard the seven heads of the hydra breathing all at once. It beat against the cabin, which seemed to complain and moan. The invisible element sent its doleful sounds through the resounding vaults of the ruins of the fort; it struck furiously across the forest, became softer in the orchards, and vanished in a long murmur in the deserted plain, as gradually disappears the shadow of a landscape on the horizon.

The sea dashed its waves angrily, as fury agitates serpents among the leaves. The clouds piled themselves up without pause, and their black flanks opened to emit their torrents on the earth. All was shivering, all trembling, all complaining. The sun had fled, and the color of day was dark as the pall of death.

Although the cabin was protected by the rock, the tempest had swept away a part of the roof during the night. To prevent its complete destruction, Manuel, aided by Momo, had stayed it with some wood and some stones of the ruins.

“You do not wish to shelter your host?” said Manuel. “Wait at least for it to fall down, and then there will be no more need of you.”

If any other look than that of God could through the tempest penetrate the desert, he would have seen some men following along the margin of the sea, braving the fury of the storm, enveloped in their mantles, wrapt and silent, their bodies bent towards the earth, and their heads bowed down. He would have seen an old man, grave, and wrapt in meditation, like those who followed him, his arms crossed on his breast, in the manner of Orientals, and preceded by a child ringing a bell. There could be heard at intervals, despite the roaring of the tempest, the tranquil and sonorous voice of this old man, saying, “De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine,” and of the men who responded, “Domine, exaudi vocem meam.”

The rain fell in torrents, the wind blew furiously, and the men continued their onward, impassible march, their step at once grave and slow.

They were the cura and some pious parishioners, who, conducted by Manuel, went to carry to the dying fisherman the last consolations of a Christian.

The priest approached the invalid, whose poor dwelling had been metamorphosed, thanks to the attentions of old Maria and of brother Gabriel. They had placed on the table a crucifix, surrounded with lights and flowers.

“Light and perfume,” said the good old woman, “are the exterior homage which we ought to offer to the Lord.”

After the ceremony, the priest, Maria, and brother Gabriel alone remained near the dying man. Pedro was calm. After a few moments he opened his eyes—

“Is she not come?” he asked.

“My good Pedro,” replied Maria, while streams of tears prevented her from seeing the invalid, “it is far from this to Madrid. She wrote she would set out, and we will see her arrive very soon.”

Santalo again fell into a lethargy. An hour passed, and then he came to himself. He fixed his look for a long time on Maria, and said to her—

“Maria, I have implored of my Divine Saviour that he will deign to come and visit me; that he will pardon me, that he will make you happy, and recompense you for all you have done for us.”

Then he swooned. He again revived, opened his eyes, in which already one could read death, and he murmured—

“She has not come!”

His head fell on the pillow, and he exclaimed—

“Pity, Lord!”

“Let us repeat the Credo,” said the priest, taking in his hands those of the dying man, and approaching his mouth to his ears, to make him understand the last words of faith, hope, and charity. A majestic and imposing silence reigned in this humble retreat, which death had come to penetrate.

Without, the tempest raged in all its terrible power; within, all was peace and repose: because God takes from death all its fears, and all its horror, when the soul springs to heaven at the cry of pity!