“But you, my son, my dear son,” cried Father José, for once inconsiderate, as he pushed aside Dom Francisco and pressed his face to the grating, “have you food and tendance?”
“My father, I think I have not much more to suffer; I think I have never yet been grateful enough for the love that has been with me all these years. To-morrow you will come again?”
For trial had not changed the loving, clinging nature; it was the same Fernando who, long years ago, had wept at the thought of life without the beloved Enrique, who now, while he uttered no murmur and patiently endured this last, worst suffering, felt that the loss of his dear companions would kill him.
“Our Blessed Saviour was forsaken by His friends, while I am but separated from mine,” he thought, and rays of comfort stole into his soul; but he was very ill, and growing weaker every day, and his heart, though never rebellious, was very faint. Yet every day he had a cheerful word for his visitors, rejoicing in their comparative freedom, while to them the moment at the grating was the one point in the whole day.
At last one day his door was opened, and two figures entered instead of one, and in a moment Father José knelt beside him.
“My son, I am here,” he said, in a trembling voice—
And Fernando answered—
“My father, oh my father, pray for me, for my spirit fails me. I am unworthy, weak and unworthy still!”
“Well, my dear son, our good Lord knows your weakness, for He has sent me to be with you to the end.”
He raised Fernando in his arms, shocked and grieved at the change since they had parted, at his wasted frame, and face burning with fever; while, wretched as had been the food, air, and accommodation of their former lodging, they were comfortable compared to what he found in this dark and dismal place.