When Death had finished speaking Tito murmured an inaudible word.
“I understand thee,” replied Death, “thou speakest of Elena de Monteclaro.”
“Yes,” answered the boy.
“I swear to thee that no other arm than thine or mine shall ever enfold her. And, besides, I promise to give thee the felicity of this world and of the other. With that thou hast all. I, my friend, am not the Omnipotent,—my power is very limited, very sad. I do not create. My province is to destroy. Nevertheless it lies in my hands to give thee strength, power and greater riches than that of princes and emperors. I will make thee a physician; but a physician! my friend, who will know, will see, and be able to speak to me. Dost thou divine the rest?”
Tito was amazed.
“Can it be possible?” he exclaimed, as though struggling with a nightmare.
“Yes, and something more which I will tell thee, but now I need only to advise thee that thou art not the son of Juan Gil. I hear the confessions of the dying, and I know that thou art the natural child of a more noble parent.”
“Hush!” exclaimed the poor boy, hiding his face in his hands. Then, inspired by a sudden idea, he said with indescribable horror: