the ball had emerged, a thread of blood still trickled, dropping down the temple, the cheek, and the neck, and falling down upon the skin beneath the shirt. Because of this, the body did not seem like that of one dead.
When I arrived, nobody had been able to make his mother believe that he was dead, and she held his head upon her knees, hoping to revive him with tender words. Montoria, on his knees at the right side, held his son’s hand between his own hands and gazed at him, speechless, not taking his eyes from him. As white as the dead, the father did not weep.
“Wife!” he exclaimed at last, “do not pray God for the impossible. We have lost our son.”
“No, my son is not dead!” exclaimed the mother, in despair. “It is a lie. Why deceive me? How could it be possible for God to take our son from us? What have we done to deserve such a punishment? Manuel, my son, why dost thou not answer me? Why dost thou not move? Why dost thou not speak? In a moment we will carry thee into the house—but where is our house? My son grows cold on this bare ground. See how chill are his hands and his face!”
“You must go away from here, wife,” said Montoria, restraining the flood of his tears; “we will take care of Manuel.”
“O my Lord God!” moaned the mother, “what ails my son that he does not speak, nor move, nor wake? He seems to be dead; but he is not, he cannot be dead! Holy Virgin del Pilar, is it not true that my son is not dead?”
“Leocadia,” repeated Montoria, wiping away the first tears that had fallen from his eyes, “go away from here a little, go away, for God’s sake! Be resigned, for God has dealt us a heavy blow, and our son no longer lives. He has died for his country.”