It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well.

So died my benefactor and best friend.
When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he looked calm and beautiful in his death sleep.

Then it was that she who had arrayed him for the grave handed to me two portraits most delicately painted on ivory and set in gold, which had been found about his neck.
I have them yet.

One is of the head of a lady with a sweet and wistful countenance, and the other the face of a dead youth also beautiful, but very sad.

Doubtless they were mother and son, but I know no more about them.
On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he had said that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his dead body, and returned to the house to meet the notaries.