On the following day, when sleep had dispelled from Ventura's brain
the remaining fumes that confused his reason, he rose as deeply
ashamed as he was sincerely penitent. He, therefore, listened to the
just and sensible charges which his father made against his
proceedings, past and present, without contradicting them.
"All you say is true, father," he answered, "and I can only tell you
that I did not know what I was doing, but I feel it enough now! The
wine, the cursed wine! I will ask Perico's pardon before all the
village. I owe it more to myself than even to him I have offended."
"You promise, then, to ask his pardon?"
"A hundred times, father."
"You will marry Elvira?"
"With all my heart."
"And treat her well?"
"By this cross," said Ventura making the sign with his fingers.
"You and she will go to Alcalá?"
"Yes, sir, if it were to Peñon." [Footnote 173]
[Footnote 173: Gibraltar, in other words, to the end of the world.]
Pedro looked at him a moment with deep emotion, and said:
"Well, then, God bless you, my son."
Both went to Anna's in search of Perico, but he had gone out, Anna
told them. At sight of them, but still more on noticing the joy and
satisfaction which shone in Pedro's face, Anna's vague but distressing
fears were tranquillized, and, more than all, Ventura's manner filled
her with hope, for she saw that he approached Elvira and talked to her
with interest and tenderness, while Pedro said, with a mysterious air
and winking toward Ventura, "That young fellow is in a hurry to be
married. You mustn't take so long to prepare the wedding things,
neighbor; young people are not so sluggish as we old ones."
They soon left, Ventura for the hacienda at which he was employed;
Pedro, who was going to his wheat-field, accompanied him, their road
being the same. The wheat was very fine, not full of weeds.
"The weeds are awake," said Ventura.
"Give them time," replied Pedro, "and they will vanquish the wheat,
because they are the legitimate offspring of the soil. The wheat is
its foster child. But, with the favor of God, wheat will not be
lacking in the house for us and for more that may come."
They separated and Ventura disappeared in the olive-grove. Pedro
remained looking after him.
"Not even a king," he said to himself, "has a son like mine. Nor is
there his equal in all Spain. If he is noble in person, he is more
noble in soul."
Ventura had advanced but few steps into the grove when he saw Perico
at a little distance, coming from behind a tree with his gun.
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"I have something in my face, thanks to you," he shouted, "that
provokes laughter. I have also something in my hand that stops
laughter. I am a coward and a killer of locusts, but I know how to rid
myself of the reproach you have put upon me."
"Perico, what are you doing?" cried Ventura, running toward him to
arrest the action. But the shot had been sent on its dreadful errand,
and Ventura fell mortally wounded. Pedro heard the report and started.
"What is that?" he exclaimed, "but what would it be?" he added upon
reflection. "Ventura has perhaps shot a partridge. It sounded near. I
will go and see."
He hurriedly follows the path his son has taken, sees a form lying
upon the ground; approaches it--God of earth and heaven! It is a
wounded man! and that man is his son! The poor old man falls down
beside him.
"Father," Ventura says, "I have some strength left; calm yourself and
help me get to the hacienda; it is not far and let them send for a
confessor, for I wish to die like a Christian."
The God of pity gives strength to the poor old man. He raises his son,
who, leaning upon his shoulder walks a few steps, repressing the
groans which anguish wrings from his breast.
At the hacienda, they hear a pitiful voice calling for succor; all run
out and see, coming along the path, the unfortunate father supporting
upon his shoulder his dying son. They meet and surround them.
"A priest! a priest!" moans the exhausted voice of Ventura.
A suitable person, mounted on the fleetest horse, leaves for the
village.
"The surgeon, bring the surgeon!" calls the father.
"And the magistrate!" adds the superintendent.
In this manner passes an hour of agony and dread.
But now they hear the swift approach of horses' feet, and the
messenger comes accompanied by the priest. The aid which arrives first
is that of religion.
The priest enters, carrying in his bosom the sacred host. All
prostrate themselves. The wretched father finds relief in tears.
They leave the priest with the dying man, and through the house,
broken only by the sobs of Pedro, reigns a solemn silence.
The minister of God comes out of the room. A sweet calm has spread
itself over the face of the reconciled. The surgeon enters, probes the
wound, and turns silently with a sad movement of his head toward those
who are standing by. Pedro awaiting, with hands convulsively clasped,
the sentence of the man of science, falls to the floor, and they carry
him away.
"Sir magistrate," the surgeon says, "he is not capable of making a
declaration, he is dying."
These words rouse Ventura. With that energy which is natural to him,
he opens his eyes and says distinctly: "Ask, for I can still answer."
The scribe prepares his materials and the magistrate asks:
"What has been the cause of your death?"
"I myself," distinctly replied Ventura.
"Who shot you?"
"One whom I have forgiven."
"You then forgive your murderer?"
"Before God and man."
These were his last words.
The priest presses his hand and says, "Let us recite the creed." All
kneel, and the guardian angel embraces as a sister, even before
hearing the divine sentence, the parting soul of him who died
forgiving his murderer.
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