Don Lorenzo. What is it?
Dr. Tomás. To-day a woman begged me to take you in her name——
Don Lorenzo. What?
Dr. Tomás. A kiss.
Doña Ángela. To him?
Don Lorenzo. To me?
Dr. Tomás. Yes. [To Doña Ángela.] But don't be alarmed, dear madam. It is the kiss of an aged dame, and it comes drenched in tears. 'Tis but the last and dolorous contraction of dying lips,—the final adieu of a being who, in a few brief hours, will have breathed her last.
Don Lorenzo. I cannot imagine——
Dr. Tomás. She—this poor woman—sent for me this morning. I mounted to the garret where she lies dying. She named herself, otherwise I should never have recognised her. She swore she was innocent, and all the same begged me to intercede with you for her pardon.
Don Lorenzo. You are talking a language not one word of which do I understand.