"Would I find Father Dámaso in town to-day?" interrupted Linares, turning to Father Salví. "They have told me that he is near here." "He is, precisely, and will come here in a little while," replied the curate. "How glad I am! I have a letter for him," exclaimed the young man. "And if it had not been for this happy chance which brought me here, I would have come expressly to visit him." "The happy chance--that is, Maria Clara--had, in the meantime awakened." "De Espadaña!" said Doña Victorina, finishing her breakfast. "Are we going to see little Clara?" And turning to Captain Tiago, "For you only, Don Santiago; for you alone! My husband does not treat anybody except people of categoría, and he even refuses some of them! My husband is not like those about here--in Madrid he only visited people of categoría." They passed into the sick room. The room was almost dark. The windows were shut for fear of a draught, and the little light which illuminated the room came from the two wax candles which were burning in front of an image of the Virgin of Antipolo. Her head wrapped up in a handkerchief, saturated in cologne water, her body wrapped in wide folds of white sheets which outlined her virginal form, the sick maiden lay on her bed of kamakon [18] among jusi and piña curtains. Her hair, forming a frame around her oval face, increased her transparent paleness, which was animated only by her large eyes full of sadness. At her side were her two friends and Andeng. De Espadaña felt of her pulse, examined her tongue, asked some questions, and shaking his head seriously, said: "Sh-sh-she is si-sick. But we-we-we can cu-cu-cure her." Doña Victorina looked with pride at those around her. "A li-lichen in mil-milk in the-the morning; syrup of marsh marsh-mal-mallow, tw-o--two hounds'--hounds' tongue pi-pills," ordered De Espadaña. "Take courage, little Clara," said Doña Victorina, approaching her. "We have come to cure you. I am going to present our cousin to you." Linares was absorbed, contemplating those eloquent eyes which seemed to be seeking some one, and he did not hear Doña Victorina call him. "Señor Linares," said the curate, calling him out of his ecstacy. "Here comes Father Dámaso." In fact, Father Dámaso was coming, pale and somewhat sad. On leaving his bed, his first visit was to Maria Clara. He was no longer the Father Dámaso that he had been, so robust and talkative. He now walked along in silence and with unsteady footsteps. CHAPTER XXV SCHEMES. Without paying attention to anybody, Father Dámaso went straight to the sick room and took hold of Maria's hand. "Maria!" said he, with indescribable tenderness, as tears dropped from his eyes. "Maria, my child, you are not going to die!" Maria opened her eyes and looked at him with surprise. None who knew the Franciscan suspected that he ever had such tender thoughts. No one ever supposed that a heart existed under that gross and rude aspect.