At the end of the room, the silhouette of the bed was dimly visible. From that bed, Enrique Darlés stammered:
"There, on the little table—you'll find matches. Light—the lamp."
Candelas stood motionless, near the door, afraid of stumbling over something. When Alicia had made a light, the two friends cast a rapid glance about the room. The only furniture was a writing-table, a bureau with a looking-glass on it, and, along the walls, half a dozen rush-bottomed chairs. The student was lying, fully dressed, on the bed. Against the whiteness of the pillow, his crisp and very black hair lay motionless. He opened his eyes, a moment, and then, very slowly, closed them again. Over his beardless face, saddened by the pallor of his lips, wandered the ethereal, luminous whiteness of the last agony.
The two girls drew near him. Alicia called:
"Enrique! Enrique!"
He half-opened his eyes. His dark pupils fixed their gaze on Little Goldie, in a look of gratitude. She repeated:
"Enrique! Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"They shot you, did they?"
"Yes."