The front window shades were closely drawn to exclude the morning sun, but looking north, to the great, quiet mountains, an open window invited the cool breath of the day.
Without understanding my motives, I took a hasty survey of the silent room. To all appearances everything was as usual.
A sheet had been drawn over the face of the dead, and the holy candles were burning low and pale.
Mariposilla's little cross of white roses was still fresh where the child had placed it, the table of medicines undisturbed except the tumbler containing the unused opiate.
Horrible discovery!
The poisonous glass was gone, and the dark, innocent-looking bottle that remained was empty.
How could I grasp the frightful suspicion? How believe that the Virgin had forgotten her child? How bear the burden of my own selfish slumbers?
Why in the night had I not understood the mocking-birds when they called in vain, "Señora! Señora! Señora?"
* * * * *
A few moments later Arturo bore in his arms from the arbor the lifeless body of Mariposilla.