He seemed about to fall to the ground in a fainting-fit, and Florentina leaned forward to support him. Pablo took her hand, then lifting her wide loose sleeve, he kissed her wrist and arm with eager passion, counting the kisses.
"One—two—three—four—ah! I am dying!"
"Be quiet, stop," cried Florentina, standing up, and making her cousin rise too. "Doctor Golfin will you scold him."
"Your bandage on, at once!" cried Teodoro: "Go to your room and keep quiet."
The young man, in the utmost confusion turned to that side of the room and brought his eyes to bear on the surgeon, standing by the sofa that was covered with blankets.
"Are you here, Don Teodoro?" he said going up to him.
"Yes, I am here," said Golfin very gravely. "You ought to go back to your room and put the bandage on again. I will go with you."
"I am perfectly well—but, of course, I will obey—only, first let me see what is here."
He was looking at the blankets and, between them, at a ghastly head, anything but fair to look upon. In fact Nela's nose seemed to have become sharper, her eyes smaller, her mouth less well-formed, her face more freckled, her hair thinner, and her forehead lower. Her eyes were closed, she breathed with difficulty, her livid lips were parted, and the hapless child seemed to be at her last gasp, with the look of death on her face already.
"Ah!" exclaimed Pablo: "My father told me that Florentina had given shelter to some poor creature. How good of her! You—poor child, you may be thankful, for you have fallen into the hands of an angel!—Are you ill? In my house you shall want for nothing; my cousin is the very image of God on earth.—This poor child is very ill; is she not doctor?"