“Why has my son died!” exclaimed the mother, straining the body to her in her arms, as if she would not let it go. “No, no, no! What is the country to me? Let my son be given back to me. Manuel, my boy, do not let them separate you from me; those who would tear you from my arms must kill me first.”
“O Lord God, Holy Virgin del Pilar,” said Don José de Montoria, in solemn tones, “never have I knowingly and deliberately offended ye. For the sake of religion and the king I have given my goods and my sons. Why, instead of my firstborn, why have you not taken my life a hundred times, miserable old man, good for nothing? Gentlemen, you who are present, I am not ashamed to weep before you; my heart is utterly broken, but Montoria is still the same. We will say to thee, Happy art thou a thousand times, my son, who hast died at the post of honor. Unhappy those of us who still live, having lost thee. But God wills it thus; and we bow our foreheads before the ruler of all things. Wife, God gave us peace, happiness, prosperity, and good sons; now it seems that He desires to strip us of all. Let our hearts be filled with humility, and let us not curse our fate. Blessed be the hand that leads us, and let us tranquilly hope for the blessing of a death like this.”
Doña Leocadia, who had no life left except for weeping, was kissing the cold body of her son. Don José, trying to subdue the manifestations of his own grief, rose and said in a firm voice—
“Leocadia, you must rise now. It is necessary that our son should be buried.”
“Buried!” exclaimed the mother. “Buried!” And she could say no more, for she fell forward, lifeless, clasping her son.
At the same moment we heard a heartrending cry not far from there, and a woman came running in anguish towards us. It was the wife of the unfortunate Manuel, now widowed and childless. Several of us tried to