Five summers and winters passed and found them still devoted to each other. Every day was a dream. Then a cruel visitation came to their town: an epidemic, sparing not high or low. It attacked the fair Lucia: and though her husband nursed her night and day, and all the leeches of the town combined their skill and judgment to save her, a stronger power than theirs was against them.
The last day dawned; instinct told her that another sun for her could never rise. Her husband bent over her in an agony of grief. She clasped her fair, frail arms around his neck.
"My love, my love, we have been very happy: all in all to each other," she murmured. "These five years, an eternity of bliss, have yet flown swiftly as a day. You have been good--so good; dear--so dear. Perhaps it is well to die thus and now, with all our youth, and all our dreams, and all our illusions undispelled. Eternity will restore us to each other. I leave you with not one mark on the delicate bloom of our great love."
She died and he was not to be consoled. His people offered to be reunited to him but he would none of them.
It was the time of the War of Succession. Into this he madly plunged, seeking death and finding it. As a rule death is said to avoid those who court him; but here it was not so. The knight, faithful to the end, was found upon the battlefield, his eyes wide open, looking upon the heavens; where perhaps he saw the vision of his lovely wife, whilst her miniature lay next his heart.
The house still stands much as it stood in those days, but two centuries older. It is the most beautiful in Zaragoza, perhaps has few equals in all Spain. A special atmosphere surrounds it: and as we look a vision rises.
Standing in the courtyard and gazing upon that wide staircase, we see that youthful pair, so favoured by nature, passing to and fro; we see them looking into each other's eyes, hear their love vows. Their arms entwine, their love-locks mingle. A mist blurs the scene, and when it passes all has changed. A sad cortége is descending. A coffin bearing the remains of what was once so fair and full of life. A knight armed cap-à-pied follows, with clanking sword and spur; but his face is pale and his eyes are red with weeping, though they weep not now. They will never weep again. The fountain of his tears is dried.