The voice with which a man condemned to death is wakened never sounded more terrible than this summons did to Miguel. He was on his feet in a flash; he ran to her room. Maximina had her eyes shut. When he came in, she opened them, tried to smile, and closed them again—never to open them more!
It was four o'clock in the morning. Juana ran to summon the doctor, first stopping at the opposite apartment. The colonel's widow insisted that it was only a fainting fit; she and Miguel put on a mustard poultice. The priest was sent for. In a few moments he arrived, at the same time with the doctor.
What was the use?
Miguel walked ceaselessly up and down the corridor, pale as a ghost. Soon he paused and wanted to enter his wife's room. The widow, the curé, and the doctor, tried to keep him back.
"No; don't go in, Rivera!"
"I know all; let me pass!"
By his face and manner they knew that it was useless to oppose him.
He threw himself on his wife's form, from which as yet not all the warmth and life had departed, and kissed her wildly for several minutes.
"Enough! enough! you are only killing yourself," they said to him.
Finally they drew him away.