After this burst of sensibility, which failed signally in its object, Florencio plunged into the lane, and I remained alone, for I thought that we could no longer proceed together. I walked about in the street, a prey to anxiety easy to comprehend, counting the minutes, which seemed centuries, and expecting every moment to see this Don Tomas, who had not been out of my thoughts for so many days, appear before me; but time passed, and he did not make his appearance. An hour was spent in this manner, and at last I decided on going to the house myself. I walked through the dark alley, entered the garden at the other end, and the first thing I saw was a man stretched on the ground. This was the unhappy Florencio, who was snoring as if he would burst his nostrils, and had forgotten every thing in his drunkenness. I retraced my steps, resolving to trust to myself only; but it was a long time before I found myself in a part of the town I knew. I got to my hotel with some difficulty. Cecilio met me at the gate.
"Ah!" cried he, on seeing me, "what a dreadful misfortune has happened! The young cavalier that you met this morning had a quarrel fixed on him by a passenger in the street, and they have carried him to his own room. He is dead, there's no doubt of it."
Such an occurrence is so common in Mexico that no unusual stir was visible in the hotel as I mounted the stairs to go to Don Jaime's room. The poor young man, uncared for, untended, appeared to be sleeping the most tranquil sleep of all, upon a bench of stone, with a bloody sheet thrown over him. The fresh air which struck his face as I lifted the cloth caused him to open his eyes, over which the glaze of death was already stealing.
"I know who you are," he said; "it was you who succored me when I was in want, and you will remain by me till the last, I am sure. Thank you."
The Biscayan gave me his clay-cold hand.
"My hand is burning hot, is it not? A few minutes ago she pressed it between both of hers. Good God! what will she say when she never sees me again?"
"Never fear," I replied. "Tell me where I can see Donna Luz."
The Biscayan whispered her address into my ear.
"Now," replied he, "it is useless. My hours are numbered; she will come too late! When I am gone, don't tell her that she was the cause of my death. Inform her only that my last thought was of her."
Some rambling, unconnected words now escaped from the poor Spaniard—his mother's name, his country's, and his dear wife's, for whom he had paid the penalty of his life. While the exterior world was gradually fading from his eyes, the sweet and holy impressions of childhood, the first imprinted on the heart of man, and the last to leave it, still threw a few bright beams athwart the thickening darkness of his thoughts. All at once, turning himself to me, he exclaimed, in a clear, distinct voice,