"My child!" she exclaimed; "it is she! it is my child!"
She had perceived three small moles upon the young girl's right shoulder. Suddenly her body became agitated by convulsive movements, her face was horribly distorted, her glaring eyes seemed staring from their sockets; she, clasped her hands tightly to her breast, uttered a deep rattle, more like a roar than a sound from a human mouth, and rolled upon the ground, crying with an accent impossible to describe—
"My daughter! my daughter! Oh, I will save her!"
She crawled, with the action of a wild beast, to the feet of the poor girl.
"Rosario, my daughter!" she cried, in a voice broken by sobs; "it is I, it is your mother! Know me, dear!"
"It is you who have killed her," Don Tadeo said, implacably; "unnatural mother, who coolly planned the dishonour of your own child."
"Oh, do not speak so!" she cried, clasping her hands; "She shall not die! I will not let her die! She must live! I will save her, I tell you!"
"It is too late."
"I tell you I will save her," she repeated, in a deep tone.
At this moment the steps of horses resounded.