Then they were all three silent. “It is not wise to stay out here,” said Leon. “The evening air has been heated by the day’s sun and it is like a furnace. Shall we take you to the eastern side, where it is a little cooler?”
“Yes, and it is better there because we hear less of the noise of the road and the bustle of the people.”
Luis rose and went a few steps quite briskly, leaning on his sister’s arm, while Leon followed with the two seats; but suddenly the invalid lost his footing and, clinging to María’s arm, tottered like a drunken man.
“Leon, Leon, for heaven’s sake!”
Held up between them, the hapless youth reached his seat on the other side of the garden and sat gazing at the vault of sky that bent over the plain.
“This reminds me,” he said, as he recovered his breath, “of our beloved wilderness of Avila which was such a perfect emblem of human life; of that glorious night landscape, consisting of a bare stretch of land, and a blazing sky suggesting a sort of mystic tree of which nothing could be seen but the root and the shining flowers.... It is the same here—do you see? The roots in the earth, the flowers in Heaven ... rocks below and blossoms above—eternal, unfading, and shedding their promise of everlasting joys.”
Then there was a long silence while nothing was heard but his painful breathing. His eyes were fixed on the stars and he seemed to be counting them, as in his infancy. María was praying speechlessly. Leon took his brother-in-law’s hand, felt his pulse and laid his hand on his forehead, watching him carefully for some time.
“I am quite comfortable,” said Luis without looking at him.
Leon presently rose and left them; his step rang on the path with that bell-like clink that sometimes is more soothing than music. When the faintness of the sound showed that the master of the house had turned the corner of the garden, Luis called his sister.
“María,” he murmured without moving.