He fell again into darkness and unconsciousness.  A long time passed—­a very long time.  Again he opened his eyes, but now the haze was denser, it was not red but black.

Through this veil he thought he saw his brother’s face, horrified and drawn with fear; and the cocked hats of the civil guards, those nightmares, surrounding poor Wooden Staff.  Afterwards, more misty, more uncertain, the face of his gentle companion, Sagrario, looking at him with weeping eyes in terrible grief, caressing him with her glance, fearless of the black, armed men who surrounded her.

This was his last look, uncertain and clouded, as though seen by the light of a flying spark.  Afterwards, eternal darkness and annihilation.

As his eyes were closing for ever, a voice close to him said: 

“We have followed your scent, rascal; you were well hidden, but we have discovered you through one of your own.  Now we shall see what account you can give of the Virgin’s jewels, thief!”

But the terrible enemy of God and social order could give no account to man.

The following day he was carried out of the prison infirmary on men’s shoulders to disappear in the common grave.

The earth kept the secret of his death, that frowning Mother who watches men’s struggles impassively, knowing that all grandeur and ambitions, all miseries and follies must rot in her breast, with no other object than the fertilisation and renovation of life.

* * * * *

N.B.—­The jewels were stolen from the sacristy of Toledo Cathedral in 1868.

[Illustration]