tenacity.
. . . There was her son near her knees, lying stretched out as she had
so often watched him when sleeping in his cradle! . . . The father's
sobs were wringing her heart, too, but with an unbearable depression,
without his wrathful exasperation. And she would never see him again!
. . . Could it be possible! . . .

Chichi's presence interrupted the despairing thoughts of her parents.
She had run to the automobile, and was returning with an armful of
flowers. She hung a wreath on the cross and placed a great spray of
blossoms at the foot. Then she scattered a shower of petals over the
entire surface of the grave, sadly, intensely, as though performing
a religious rite, accompanying the offering with her outspoken
thoughts--"For you who so loved life for its beauties and pleasures!
. . . for you who knew so well how to make yourself beloved!" . . . And
as her tears fell, her affectionate memories were as full of admiration
as of grief. Had she not been his sister, she would have liked to have
been his beloved.

And having exhausted the rain of flower-petals, she wandered away so as
not to disturb the lamentations of her parents.

Before the uselessness of his bitter plaints, Don Marcelo's former
dominant character had come to life, raging against destiny.

He looked at the horizon where so often he had imagined the adversary
to be, and clenched his fists in a paroxysm of fury. His disordered mind
believed that it saw the Beast, the Nemesis of humanity. And how much
longer would the evil be allowed to go unpunished? . . .

There was no justice; the world was ruled by blind chance;--all lies,
mere words of consolation in order that mankind might exist unterrified
by the hopeless abandon in which it lived!

It appeared to him that from afar was echoing the gallop of the four
Apocalyptic horsemen, riding rough-shod over all his fellow-creatures.
He saw the strong and brutal giant with the sword of War, the archer
with his repulsive smile, shooting his pestilential arrows, the
bald-headed miser with the scales of Famine, the hard-riding spectre
with the scythe of Death. He recognized them as only divinities,
familiar and terrible-which had made their presence felt by mankind. All
the rest was a dream. The four horsemen were the reality. . . .

Suddenly, by the mysterious process of telepathy, he seemed to read the
thoughts of the one grieving at his feet.

The mother, impelled by her own sorrow, was thinking o