“You, Don Gaspar, why, you will live to bury us all! Why you are only in the prime of life! You are as vigorous as a boy.”
Don Gaspar shook his head, but with an air of such Olympic serenity, with so animated an expression on his classical features that he seemed rather a demi-god of antiquity affirming his immortality than an old man of our restless age announcing the decline of his vital powers.
“The truth is,” interposed Lain Calvo, “that we are all like moldy parchment, ready to burn to dust at a touch, like the mummies of Peru. Is not that what you were saying, Don Gaspar?”
“He was saying,” screamed Rojas, “that he would like to have Esclavita, Doña Aurora’s maid, to nurse him when he is sick.”
“What an idea!” exclaimed the Asturian. “With a girl like that to take care of him, an old man would soon be in his grave, even if he were as strong as an oak, caray. Unless he were like King David.” And turning to Rogelio, he added. “What does the son of the house say to that? Would he be willing to give up the pretty girl to the old fellows? Wouldn’t he protest against it?”
Whether because of the manner in which the question was put to him, or because his conscience was not altogether tranquil, or finally because owing to his youth and inexperience he had not the self-possession demanded by the occasion, Rogelio turned crimson (which was the more noticeable in him, on account of his habitual pallor), and stammered:
“No—to Señor Febrero—I—I—” And in his own mind, he said “Hypocrite! You can’t hear, indeed. I verily believe you can hear the grass grow.”
The arrangements for the night were the same as on the previous night, only that, in order not to vitiate the air of the bed-room, Rogelio’s bed was placed in the dressing-room, the door between the two rooms being left open. It was long before the patient fell asleep; she complained of much pain, of a sensation of heat in the injured leg, and an unaccountable feeling of weariness. Rogelio, laying his hand on her forehead, noticed that it was hot, a fact which kept him from sleeping, without preventing him, however, from wondering a little if Esclavita would come to chat a while with him, a thing which he at once feared and desired. Debating this question in his mind, he at last fell asleep, and waking toward morning, he saw the girl approach his bedside. Leaning over him, she said quickly, “I can’t stir from there; she is continually asking for water. She complains of pains all over her body. It is all the effect of the fall.” Rogelio, greatly troubled, answered softly, “Very well, Suriña.” But this bad news prevented him from falling asleep again. Was there any danger? Was this the beginning of a fever? The doctor, who came at an early hour, relieved him from his apprehensions. “All this,” he said, “is the after-effect of the fall. The fever is slight. The inflammation we will soon have under control. Give me a piece of paper. You will see an improvement by evening.” In the evening, instead of the promised improvement, there was an increase in the fever, but at nightfall a change for the better took place, and at ten o’clock the patient ate with appetite the wing of a chicken. “Ah, God be praised!” she cried. “The pain in my bones seems better now. I felt such an oppression inside. Child, I think I shall soon be myself again.” This cheerful prognostication was followed by a period of freedom from pain, and toward midnight Doña Aurora was enjoying the profound and peaceful slumber of a convalescent.
“To-day she will come flying,” said Rogelio to himself, resolving to keep awake, and notwithstanding his sophistical arguments to prove all that of no importance whatever, he felt his nerves thrill with excitement, and his heart throb tumultuously.
