They passed into the sick room.
The room was almost dark. The windows were shut for fear of a draught, and the little light which illuminated the room came from the two wax candles which were burning in front of an image of the Virgin of Antipolo.
Her head wrapped up in a handkerchief, saturated in cologne water, her body wrapped in wide folds of white sheets which outlined her virginal form, the sick maiden lay on her bed of kamakon[2] among jusi and piña curtains. Her hair, forming a frame around her oval face, increased her transparent paleness, which was animated only by her large eyes full of sadness. At her side were her two friends and Andeng.
De Espadaña felt of her pulse, examined her tongue, asked some questions, and shaking his head seriously, said:
“Sh-sh-she is si-sick. But we-we-we can cu-cu-cure her.”
Doña Victorina looked with pride at those around her.
“A li-lichen in mil-milk in the-the morning; syrup of marsh marsh-mal-mallow, tw-o—two hounds’—hounds’ tongue pi-pills,” ordered De Espadaña.
“Take courage, little Clara,” said Doña Victorina, approaching her. “We have come to cure you. I am going to present our cousin to you.”
Linares was absorbed, contemplating those eloquent eyes which seemed to be seeking some one, and he did not hear Doña Victorina call him.
“Señor Linares,” said the curate, calling him out of his ecstacy. “Here comes Father Dámaso.”