And his cry for pity was in vain. In vain he repeated the sweet name of Mary, adjusting it to the modulations of every melody. Heaven and the Virgin were far away, it seemed, and could not hear him. The neighbors of the plaza were near at hand, but they did not choose to hear. Nobody came down to take him in from the cold; no window was thrown open to drop him a copper. The passers-by, pursued, as it were, by the fleet steps of pneumonia, scarcely dared stop. Juan's voice at last died in his throat; he could sing no more. His legs trembled under him; his hands lost their sense of touch. He took a few steps, then sank on the sidewalk at the foot of the grating that surrounds the square. He sat with his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He felt vaguely that it was the last moment of his life, and he again prayed, imploring the divine pity.
At the end of a few minutes he was conscious of being shaken by the arm, and knew that a man was standing before him. He raised his head, and taking for granted it was the old story about moving on, inquired timidly,--
"No; I am no officer. What is the matter with you? Get up."
"Yes, sir; but it isn't exactly that,--I haven't had anything to eat to-day."
"I will help you, then. Come; up with you."
The man took Juan by both arms and stood him on his feet. He seemed very strong.
"Now lean on me, and let us see if we can find a cab."
"Nowhere where you wouldn't want to go. Are you afraid?"
"No; I feel in my heart that you will help me."
"Come along, then. Let's see how soon I can get you something hot to drink."
"God will reward you for this, sir; the Virgin will reward you. I thought I was going to die there, against that grating."
"Don't talk about dying, man. The question now is to find a cab; if we can only move along fast enough--What is the matter? Are you stumbling?"
"Yes, sir. I think I struck a lamp-post. You see--as I am blind--"
"Are you blind?" asked the stranger, anxiously.
Juan felt his companion's arm tremble in his, and they walked along in silence. Suddenly the man stopped and asked in a voice husky with emotion,--
"And your father was Manuel Martínez, wasn't he,--musician of the third artillery band?"
The blind one felt the tight clasp of two powerful arms that almost smothered him, and heard a trembling voice exclaim,--