“Duke,” murmured the Countess, on seeing Monteclaro, “my confessor has a key—Sire,” she continued, turning toward the Archbishop, “ask him for it—. This boy, this physician, this angel, is natural and acknowledged son of the Count of Rionuevo, my late husband, who when dying, wrote you a letter, Duke, asking Elena’s hand for him. With this key—in my bedroom—all the papers—I pray you—I command you.”
At these words she fell back upon the pillow, the light gone from her eyes, the breath from her lips, the color from her face.
“She is dying!” exclaimed Tito. “Remain with her, Sire,” he added, addressing the Archbishop. “And you, Duke, listen to me.”
“Wait,” said Death, as he heard the youth.
“What more?” he replied.
“Thou hast not forgiven her.”
“Tito!—your forgiveness!”—murmured the dying woman.
“Tito!” exclaimed the Duke of Monteclaro, “is it you?”
“Countess, may God pardon you as I do. Die in peace,” said the son of Crispina Lopez, with religious fervor.
At this moment Death bent over the Countess, and pressed his lips to her brow.