The mother looked at the little shirt, dirty, torn, on which her tears were falling, and she said:
"Put this shirt on him!"
Promptly the woman shouted up to one of her people on the heights above:
"Bring quickly one of Nufrillo's clean shirts."
The clean shirt was brought. When the mother raised the small body, a little water came from the mouth and rolled down the chest.
"O Madonna of Miracles, perform the miracle!" she prayed, raising her eyes to heaven in a supreme supplication.
Then she laid her sweet burden down again. She took the old shirt, the red waistband, the hat; she rolled them all up into a bundle, and said:
"It will be my pillow; at night I shall rest my head on it. I want to die on it."
She placed the poor relic on the sand near the child's head, placed her temple on it, and stretched out as if on a bed.
They both lay there, side by side, the mother and son, on the hard stones, beneath the burning sky, near the homicidal sea. And she chanted the same cantilena that had formerly shed a chaste slumber over the cradle.