The God of pity gives strength to the poor old man. He raises his son, who, leaning upon his shoulder walks a few steps, repressing the groans which anguish wrings from his breast.
At the hacienda, they hear a pitiful voice calling for succor; all run out and see, coming along the path, the unfortunate father supporting upon his shoulder his dying son. They meet and surround them.
"A priest! a priest!" moans the exhausted voice of Ventura.
A suitable person, mounted on the fleetest horse, leaves for the village.
"The surgeon, bring the surgeon!" calls the father.
"And the magistrate!" adds the superintendent.
In this manner passes an hour of agony and dread.
But now they hear the swift approach of horses' feet, and the messenger comes accompanied by the priest. The aid which arrives first is that of religion.
The priest enters, carrying in his bosom the sacred host. All prostrate themselves. The wretched father finds relief in tears.
They leave the priest with the dying man, and through the house, broken only by the sobs of Pedro, reigns a solemn silence.