“Then—there is no hope?” he said in a voice of mingled humbleness and entreaty.
The doctor made a vague gesture and pointed toward heaven.
Jorge returned to the alcove, supporting himself along the wall. He knelt down at the foot of the bed, and remained there, his head buried in his arms, sobbing quietly.
Luiza was dying. Her beautiful arms, that she had so often caressed before the looking-glass, were already paralyzed; her eyes, that had flamed with passion or shone humid with pleasure, were sunken in their sockets. Donna Felicidade and Marianna had placed a lighted lamp before an engraving of the Virgin of Sorrows, and were praying on their knees. Twilight was falling sadly, and seemed to bring with it a funereal silence. The bell rang discreetly, and a few moments afterwards the countenance of the Counsellor Accacio appeared at the bedroom, door. Donna Felicidade rose to her feet, and on seeing her tears the counsellor said,—
“I come to perform a duty,—to accompany you on this sad occasion.”
He said he had met the good Dr. Caminha by chance, and that he had informed him of the dreadful event. But he had no wish to enter the alcove. He sat down in a chair, rested his elbow sorrowfully on his knee, and his head in his hand, saying in a low voice to Donna Felicidade,—
“Go on with your prayers. The designs of God are inscrutable!”
In the alcove Julião felt Luiza’s pulse and glanced at Sebastião, making a gesture with his hand as of something about to vanish.
They approached Jorge, who was motionless on his knees, his face buried in the bedclothes.
“Jorge,” whispered Sebastião to him, almost inaudibly.