Montoria had indeed aged visibly, and one night had taken ten years of his life. He sat down upon a stone, and, putting his elbows on his knees, hid his face in his hands. He remained in this attitude for a long time, and none of those present interfered with his grief. Doña Leocadia, her daughter, and her daughter in-law, assisted by two old servants of the family, were in the Coso. Don Roque, who went and came from one place to the other, said,—
"The señora remains very weak. They are praying earnestly now and weeping. They are sadly downcast, the poor ladies. Boys, it is very necessary that we look about town, and see if a little something in the way of nourishment cannot be found."
Montoria rose then, wiped away the tears which coursed freely from his burning eyes, saying,—
"There is no lack of food still in town, according to my belief. Don Roque, my friend, will you not go and find something to eat, let it cost what it may?"
"Yesterday I paid five duros for a hen in the market," said one of the old servants of the house.
"But to-day there are none," said Don Roque. "I was there only a moment ago."
"Friends, look about and find something. I need nothing for myself."
He was saying this when we heard the agreeable cackle of a fowl. We all looked joyfully towards the entrance of the street, and we saw Candiola, who carried in his left hand the chicken we know of, caressing its black plumage with his right. Before they asked him for it, he approached Montoria slowly, and said,—
"A doubloon for the chicken."
"What a starved thing it is!" exclaimed Don Roque. "The poor creature is little more than bones."