The mathematician felt the stone rise under his feet—but no, it was not rising; he only fancied, mathematician though he was, that he felt it rise.
“I swear it to you,” repeated Rosario, “by my father’s ashes, and by the God who is looking at us——May our bodies, united as they are, repose under those stones when God wills to take us out of this world.”
“Yes,” repeated the Pepe Rey, with profound emotion, feeling his soul filled with an inexplicable trouble.
Both remained silent for a short time. Rosario had risen.
“Already?” he said.
She sat down again.
“You are trembling again,” said Pepe. “Rosario, you are ill; your forehead is burning.”
“I think I am dying,” murmured the young girl faintly. “I don’t know what is the matter with me.”
She fell senseless into her cousin’s arms. Caressing her, he noticed that her face was covered with a cold perspiration.
“She is really ill,” he said to himself. “It was a piece of great imprudence to have come down stairs.”