“As though somewhere—I do not know where, there were a number of people walking about.... It seems to me that I can hear a bustle of servants and the rattling of crockery—I even smell the steam of food which sickens me.”
Leon tried to coax her out of these notions but could not succeed; she was not satisfied till Paoletti, whom she trusted as the incarnation of truth, said:
“My dear daughter, this noise and these smells are perhaps merely over-excitement....” This time the cock did not crow.
“I must pray,” said María. “But do not go away Leon, stay here. Seeing me so ill, I imagine you will not laugh at me because I say my prayers. I want you to hear me, and to be silent and listen—it is your duty to do so. If you do not believe you can listen and be silent. Do not go, do not leave the room....”
“I am here.”
“Sit down, and do not look at the floor, look at me. Padre Paoletti and I will pray; and you—there, close there—and keep quiet. Every word we utter will be a lash—but keep quiet and do not move, look at me—there, so; so that I can see you.”
And taking hold of his hand she looked tenderly in his face.
“You ought not to try to pray,” said Leon. “Our kind friend Señor Paoletti will pray—listen only, and do not exhaust yourself.”
“Very well,” said María taking a medal which Rafaela had brought her from under her pillow. “Now, to please me, kiss this medal.”
Leon kissed it, not once but again and again. María did the same; then she murmured: