He was left alone in the most complete darkness. He tried to scream,
but he was voiceless. He made frantic attempts to move, but he could
not; he had turned to stone.
He waited in anguish. Day dawned at last; and Pacorrito had resumed
his old appearance, but strange to say, he was all of one color, and
apparently all of one substance,--his hands, his arms, his rags, his
hair, and even the newspapers which he held in his hand.
"There is no doubt about it," said he; "I have turned into a stone."
Before him he saw a great sheet of plate-glass, with some letters on
it, running backward. Around him was a multitude of statuettes and
fancy ornaments.
"Horror! I must be in the show-window!"
A clerk took him carefully in his hands, and having dusted him, put
him back in his place.
His Serene Highness looked down upon the pedestal on which he stood,
and saw a card with the figures $12.00 upon it.
"Good heavens! I am worth a treasure! That, at least, partially
consoles one."
And the people stopped on the other side of the plate-glass to admire
the wonderful bit of clay statuary representing a ragamuffin selling
matches and newspapers. Everybody praised the artist, and laughed at
the droll expression and bungling figure of the great Migajas, while
he in the inmost recesses of his clay repeated in anguish,--
"A puppet! a puppet! forever! through time everlasting!"