He knew a little about everything, and he could not conceal from himself the gravity of her illness.

She waited quietly for death.
"Bring me some roses," she said, smiling to Gabriel, as if in the last moment of her life she wished to acknowledge the natural beauty of the world made hideous and darkened by man.

The "companion" lived on dry bread, refusing the help of his comrades only a little less poor than himself, sleeping on the ground, in order to take her on his next visit a bunch of flowers.
"She died, Sagrario," groaned Luna, "and I know not where they buried her; possibly she may have served for a lecture at the school of anatomy; she fell into the common grave like those soldiers whose heroism remains in obscurity.

But I still see her; she has followed me in all my misfortunes, and I think she lives again in you." "But uncle," said Sagrario, gently, touched by his recital, "I cannot do what she did.

I am an unhappy woman, without strength or will." "Call me Gabriel," said Luna, vehemently.