HOW TITO ACQUIRED A KNOWLEDGE OF MEDICINE IN ONE HOUR.
No words could have astonished him more than those he had just heard.
“Friend! Wait!”
He had no friends.
But what astounded him more was the horrible feeling of cold that the
hand of that shadow gave him; and even the tone of its voice chilled him
like a polar wind, to the very marrow of his bones.
The night being dark, the poor orphan could not distinguish the features
of the newly arrived being, though he did discern his black, flowing
robes, which did not resemble those worn by either sex.
Full of doubts, mysterious fears and even a lively curiosity, Tito rose
from the doorway where he had crouched, and murmured in a faint voice,
broken by the chattering of his teeth:—“What do you wish?”
“That I ask thee!” responded the unknown being, linking his arm in Tito’s
with affectionate familiarity.
“Who are you?” asked the poor shoemaker, who felt himself dying from the
cold contact of that arm.
“I am he whom thou seekest.”
“Who?—I?—I seek nobody,” replied Tito, endeavoring to disengage himself.
“Then why didst thou call me?” replied the other, grasping his arm with
more force.
“Ah! Leave me!”
“Calm thyself, Tito. I mean thee no harm,” added the mysterious being.
“Come! Thou tremblest with hunger and cold! Yonder is an open tavern
in which I have something to do to-night. Let us enter and refresh
ourselves.”
“Well! but who are you?” asked Tito anew, his curiosity commencing to
overcome his other feelings.
“I told thee when we met. We are friends—and observe that thou art the
only one upon this earth to whom I give this name. Remorse binds me to
thee. I have been the cause of all thy misfortunes.”
“But I do not know you,” replied the shoemaker.
“Nevertheless I have entered thy house many times. Through me thou wert
left motherless the day of thy birth. I was the cause of the apoplexy
that killed Juan Gil; I hurled thee from the palace of Rionuevo; removed
thy housekeeper, and finally put this bottle of vitriol within thy reach.”
Tito shook with fear; his hair stood on end; he felt as if his contracted
muscles were giving way.
“You are the Devil!” he exclaimed, with undisguised terror.
“Boy!” answered the black robed stranger in a tone of gentle reproof,
“why dost thou think that? I am something more and better than the
wretched being thou namest.”
“Who are you then?”
“Let us enter the inn and thou wilt know.”
Tito entered quickly, and placing the unknown being before the dim lamp
looked at him with intense earnestness.
He appeared to be about thirty-three years of age, tall, pale, and
beautiful, dressed in a long tunic, and black, flowing mantle; his long
hair concealed by a peculiarly shaped black cap. He was beardless, but
nevertheless not effeminate in appearance; and notwithstanding the
strength and vigor of his countenance, he did not resemble a man. He
appeared to be a human being without sex, a body without soul, or, more
properly speaking, a soul without visible mortal body. One would call him
a negative personality. His eyes were without brilliancy. They reminded
one of the darkness of night; they were ghostly; eyes of sorrow, of
death; but so gentle, so inoffensive, so profound in their dumbness that
one could not withdraw his gaze. They attracted like the sea; fascinated
like a deep abyss; consoled like forgetfulness. Scarcely had Tito fixed
his eyes on those inanimate ones, when he felt as though a black veil
enveloped him, that all was turning to chaos, and that the noise of the
world was like that of a cyclone.
The strange being then uttered these words:—
“I am Death, my friend—I am Death, and God has sent me—God, who has
reserved for thee a glorious place in heaven. Five times I have caused
thee misery, but at last, I, the implacable deity, have had compassion on
thee. When He ordered me to bring thy godless soul before the Tribunal,
I prayed to Him to confide thy existence to me, and allow me to remain
awhile at thy side, promising in the end to deliver thy spirit cleansed
of sin and worthy of His glory. Heaven has not been deaf to my prayer.
Thou art then the first mortal whom I ever approached whose body did not
turn to cold ashes. Thou art my only friend. Listen, now, and learn the
path to happiness and eternal salvation.”
When Death had finished speaking Tito murmured an inaudible word.
“I understand thee,” replied Death, “thou speakest of Elena de
Monteclaro.”
“Yes,” answered the boy.
“I swear to thee that no other arm than thine or mine shall ever enfold
her. And, besides, I promise to give thee the felicity of this world
and of the other. With that thou hast all. I, my friend, am not the
Omnipotent,—my power is very limited, very sad. I do not create. My
province is to destroy. Nevertheless it lies in my hands to give thee
strength, power and greater riches than that of princes and emperors. I
will make thee a physician; but _a physician! my friend_, who will know,
will see, and be able to speak to me. Dost thou divine the rest?”
Tito was amazed.
“Can it be possible?” he exclaimed, as though struggling with a nightmare.
“Yes, and something more which I will tell thee, but now I need only to
advise thee that thou art not the son of Juan Gil. I hear the confessions
of the dying, and I know that thou art the natural child of a more noble
parent.”
“Hush!” exclaimed the poor boy, hiding his face in his hands. Then,
inspired by a sudden idea, he said with indescribable horror:
“With which some day you intend to kill Elena?”
“Compose thyself,” answered the divinity. “Thou wilt never cause Elena’s
death. Therefore, answer! Dost thou, or dost thou not, wish to be my
friend?”
Tito answered with another question.
“Will you give me Elena in exchange?”
“I have told thee, yes.”
“Then here is my hand,” said the boy, offering it to Death. But at that
moment a thought more horrible than the first assailed him.
“With these hands that clasp mine you killed my poor mother!”
“’Tis true, thy mother died,” answered Death. “Understand, however, that
I did not cause her a single pain. I make no one suffer. He who torments
thee to the last, is my rival Life; that Life that so many love.”
For answer the boy threw himself into the arms of Death.
“Come, then,” said the strange being.
“Where?”
“To the Granja palace, to commence thy practice as a physician.”
“But whom do we go to see there?”
“The ex-king, Philip V.”
“What! Is Philip to die?”
“Not yet; he must return, and reign again; and thou goest to offer him
the crown.”
Tito bowed his head, crushed beneath the weight of so many new ideas.
Death took his arm and led him from the inn. They had not reached the
door when they heard cries and lamentations behind them.
The proprietor of the house was dead.