Then, suddenly sitting up in bed, she cried out: “Where is my husband?”
“He will come this moment, my sweet,” said her mother kissing her fondly. “Compose yourself, or you will make yourself ill again.”
“Who was it but you that filled my mind with jealousy?” the martyr went on, turning indignantly on her mother. “Why should you try to soothe me now? Fetch my husband and Padre Paoletti.—Every one else must go; leave me with them.”
She put her hand to her forehead with a sharp cry.
“What is it? Merciful Heaven!”
“A pain in my head,” she murmured closing her eyes. “A pain that pierces and burns my brain.—That woman! Mamma, do you see her? That woman has driven a red hot nail into my head.”
They all stood dumb with horror.
“Help me, help me!” cried María fairly raving. “Do you not see her coming towards me? Will no one have the charity to drive her away, to throttle her? Jesus, Saviour of my soul—protect me!”
There was a solemn and terrified silence, broken only by the marquis, who indulged in a smothered fit of coughing. Milagros was crying, kissing her daughter, and appealing to her with tender words. But María did not answer; her eyes were shut and her speechless stupor was like the silence of death.
They were rushing for the doctor when he came in. He immediately pronounced the patient to be in a very critical state; he was excessively angry, saying that he would take no responsibility, as his orders had not been obeyed, and ordered every one out of the room with exasperated indignation.