remained for a long time, with her head resting on his, thinking, thinking.
And he said to himself: “Shall I see you again, dear mother? Shall I arrive at the end of my journey, my mother?” And he walked on and on, among strange trees, vast plantations of sugar-cane, and fields without end, always with those blue mountains in front of him, which cut the sky with their exceedingly lofty crests. Four days, five days a week, passed. His strength was rapidly declining, his feet were bleeding. Finally, one evening at sunset, they said to him:—
“Tucuman is fifty miles from here.”
He uttered a cry of joy, and hastened his steps, as though he had, in that moment, regained all his lost vigor. But it was a brief illusion. His forces suddenly abandoned him, and he fell upon the brink of a ditch, exhausted. But his heart was beating with content. The heaven, thickly sown with the most brilliant stars, had never seemed so beautiful to him. He contemplated it, as he lay stretched out on the grass to sleep, and thought that, perhaps, at that very moment, his mother was gazing at him. And he said:—
“O my mother, where are you? What are you doing at this moment? Do you think of your son? Do you think of your Marco, who is so near to you?”
Poor Marco! If he could have seen in what a case his mother was at that moment, he would have made a superhuman effort to proceed on his way, and to reach her a few hours earlier. She was ill in bed, in a ground-floor room of a lordly mansion, where
