“Señor Don José,” said Don Roque, weeping, “will you not retire also, and let your friends fulfil this sad duty?”
“No; I am man for all that must be done, and God has given me a soul that does not flinch and will not quail.”
He lifted the body of Manuel, aided by one of the others, while Augustine and I lifted his grandchild, to place both at the entrance of the Calle de las Rufas, where many other families had lain their dead. Montoria, as he put down the body, breathed a long sigh, and let his arms fall as if the effort made had exhausted his energies, and said—
“Truly, gentlemen, I am not now able to deny that I am tired. Yesterday, I felt young; today, I am very old.”
Montoria had indeed aged visibly, and one night had taken ten years of his life. He sat down upon a stone, and, putting his elbows on his knees, hid his face in his hands. He remained in this attitude for a long time, and none of those present interfered with his grief. Doña Leocadia, her daughter, and her daughter in-law, assisted by two old servants of the family, were in the Coso. Don Roque, who went and came from one place to the other, said—
“The señora remains very weak. They are praying earnestly now and weeping. They are sadly downcast, the poor ladies. Boys, it is very necessary that we look about town, and see if a little something in the way of nourishment cannot be found.”
Montoria rose then, wiped away the tears which coursed freely from his burning eyes, saying—