“Yes—I desire it.”
“We must consult the mother.”
“No—I take the responsibility.”
The physician shrugged his shoulders; then he went to a table that was hidden by the curtain.
“My darling,” cried Pepa, “why must you die? Why leave me alone—more lonely than I am? O Lord God! O Blessed Virgin of Sorrows! Why do you take my child ... my only child? Monina—Mona....”
She had no suspicion of what Leon and the doctor were projecting; she did not see that Moreno held in his hand a blade—a tiny but terrible weapon, more fatal perhaps than the executioner’s axe.
“Monina, sweet angel, my cherub—open your eyes, look at me....”
Her grief was growing fierce; the terrible glare of her wild eyes, her dry, white, quivering lips, the nervous tension of her hands, all betrayed that intensity of misery which gives a bereft mother the aspect of a fury.
“Monina! my child, my darling! If you die, I die; I cannot let you go without me!” And she devoured her with kisses.