When he reached the Puerta Cerrada, the student drew near the famous cross that gives its name to the square. He could do no more. His legs were collapsing with exhaustion, his heart was bursting, his tongue protruding. A number of women, frightened, crowded about him.
"You're wounded!" they exclaimed. "What's the matter? They've shot you!"
There was no anger in their cries, but only simple pity. The student felt calmer. One of the women had a water-jug.
"Give me a drink!" stammered Enrique. "Water! I'm dying of thirst!"
He raised the lip of the jug to his mouth, and drank in huge swallows. The women kept saying:
"You're wounded. Poor man! You'd better hurry to the hospital!"
To avoid waking suspicion, Darlés answered:
"Yes, I'm on my way there, now."
Then he swallowed a few more mouthfuls, and fled toward the Calle de Segovia. He ran a long, long time, till his last strength was gone. He stopped then, and gathered his wits together. His wet clothes were glued to his body, giving him a disagreeable feeling of cold. His hands were red. What he had believed to be sweat, was blood.
"I'm wounded!" he murmured.