“You! you? Those who ask in fervent humility will be heard; but you! How do you pray?”
She seized his arm and dragged him towards the picture, in her frantic energy her strength was surprising.
“As you will,” said Leon, who was no longer master of himself; and he never knew how, but he found himself on his knees, and with eyes raised to Heaven he exclaimed in piteous accents: “Merciful God! save her life, she is what I love best.”
A dying child, a despairing mother, a man on his knees praying after a fashion of his own. It strikes me that it is folly to write of such commonplace occurrences.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MOTHER.
What a night they passed. Nothing happened, and yet it was as full of interest as the years of an eventful life. Pepa was in such a state of nervous excitement that her brain seemed to be affected; she laughed while she cried, and her broken sentences, often incoherent and irrelevant, betrayed that her mind was tossed between despair and hope. She would sit trembling like an old woman, and again, flit restlessly about the room like a child that does not know what it wants.
Monina’s skin was still warm and moist—that moisture was as a dew from Heaven. The deadly greyness of her face gave way to a faint pink tinge; it was a joy to watch the frail flowers of life blossoming again where, so lately, had been a desert of death. Her breathing grew easy, and on her silent and slightly parted lips dawned the sweetest charm of infancy, a happy smile. It was impossible to look at her and not to hope; and it was impossible to refuse to listen to that hope which seemed an inspiration from Heaven.