"Mother Mary, be gracious unto me! and forgive me if I think of aught else than heaven in this awful moment!" murmured Catalina in a soft and plaintive voice. "Ah, the pangs, the torments I endure! Oh, mi querida, carry me no further; 'tis useless,—I am dying. Alas! dishonoured as I am, I would not wish to live. Lay me down here, where the grass is soft and green. Ronald, here ends our love and my hope together!"
In Stuart's face there was an expression which pen can never describe, as he laid her down gently on the turf, and sustaining her head upon his arm, bent over her in silent sorrow and misery.
"Are you near me still, mi querida?" she murmured tremulously.
"Catalina, I am yet with you,—my arm is around you."
"Alas! the light has left my eyes: death is darkening my vision."
"Mercy of Heaven! it cannot be thus,—they are bright as ever; but a cloud has overshadowed the moon."
"Ronald, it is the hand of death: I see you no longer. Are you near me?"
"My hands are pressing yours,—alas! they are very cold and clammy."
"I feel them not: the numbness of my limbs will soon extend to my breast. When I am gone, let twelve masses he said for my soul. Alas, you will think them of no use! But promise me this, that I may die more easily and peacefully."
"I do, Catalina, I do."