“Light and perfume,” said the good old woman, “are the exterior homage which we ought to offer to the Lord.”
After the ceremony, the priest, Maria, and brother Gabriel alone remained near the dying man. Pedro was calm. After a few moments he opened his eyes—
“Is she not come?” he asked.
“My good Pedro,” replied Maria, while streams of tears prevented her from seeing the invalid, “it is far from this to Madrid. She wrote she would set out, and we will see her arrive very soon.”
Santalo again fell into a lethargy. An hour passed, and then he came to himself. He fixed his look for a long time on Maria, and said to her—
“Maria, I have implored of my Divine Saviour that he will deign to come and visit me; that he will pardon me, that he will make you happy, and recompense you for all you have done for us.”
Then he swooned. He again revived, opened his eyes, in which already one could read death, and he murmured—
“She has not come!”
His head fell on the pillow, and he exclaimed—
“Pity, Lord!”