It was raining: one of those gloomy afternoons, when even the sad ringing of bells seems to give warning of the approach of death; when the sky is covered with clouds and the earth with mud; when the damp and piercing air smothers all hope in the human breast; when the poor are hungry, the orphans cold, and the unhappy envious of those already dead.
Night fell, and Tito, who still had some fever, crouched down in the corner of a dark doorway, giving way to bitter tears.... The idea of death then presented itself to his fevered imagination, not as a horror or fearful possibility, but pleasantly, as something welcome and longed for.
The unfortunate boy folded his arms across his breast, as if to guard that sweet image which brought him so much rest, consolation and happiness; and in making this movement, his hand touched some hard object in the pocket of his miserable coat.
The reaction was quick; the idea of life, and of its preservation, was now uppermost in his brain; he grasped with all his strength that unexpected succor which came to him on the very brink of the grave.
Hope breathed in his ear a thousand seductive promises, which induced him to wonder if that hard thing he touched could be money, an enormous precious stone, or a talisman; something, in fact, which might bring him life, fortune, happiness and fame (all of which to him meant the love of Elena de Monteclaro); and putting his hand in his pocket he whispered to death:—“Wait!”
But ah! that hard thing was nothing but a vial of vitriol with which he had mixed blacking, the last that remained to him of his shoemaker’s outfit, which by some inexplicable accident had found its way to his pocket.
Consequently when he believed that he had discovered a means of salvation, the unhappy boy found in his hand a poison, and one of the most deadly.
“There is no hope!” said he, raising the vial to his lips. But a hand, cold as ice, was placed upon his shoulder, and a voice, sweet, tender and divine, murmured these words:
“Friend! Wait!”