The images that Calderón conjures up at the end of El médico de su honra – Dona Mencía's prostrate figure awaiting death, and the bloodied hand of Gutierre her husband – are almost unforgettable theatrical encounters. The words evoke vivid presences which fix our attention. They are images, visible emblems. Just as the bloodied hand which marks Gutierre's door is a rubric of his actions (“Los que de un oficio tratan,/ponen, señor, a las puertas/un escudo de sus armas”) (“Those who practice a profession, sir, place a coat of arms on their door”) (1, 348b, emphasis mine), so too Mencía's corpse becomes emblematic of his crime. Calderón looks to incite the admiratio of his audience during these two final moments; he drives toward the naked, unmediated apprehension of these images. He elicits a primary emotional response of wonder, horror, dread, and, perhaps, pity. El médico is the ultimate honor play; it is by definition meant to stir the passions, to “move everyone forcefully.”