Part 15

"We have permission," began Basilio; "our mother expects us at nine."

"You won't go at nine o'clock either; you shall stay till ten."

"But, señor, after nine one can't pass through the streets----"

"Are you trying to dictate to me?" demanded the sacristan, and he seized Crispin's arm.

"Señor, we have not seen our mother for a week," entreated Basilio, taking hold of his brother as if to protect him.

With a stroke on the cheek the sacristan made him let go, and dragged off Crispin, who commenced to cry, let himself fall, tried to cling to the floor, and besought Basilio to keep him. But the sacristan, dragging the child, disappeared in the shadows.

Basilio stood mute. He heard his little brother's body strike against the stairs; he heard a cry, blows, heart-rending words, growing fainter and fainter, lost at last in the distance.

"When shall I be strong enough?" he murmured, and dashed down the stairs.

He reached the choir and listened. He could still hear his little brother's voice; then over the cry, "Mama!--Brother!" a door shut. Trembling, damp with sweat, holding his mouth with his hand to stifle a cry, he stood a moment looking about in the dim church. The doors were closed, the windows barred. He went back to the tower, did not stop at the second stage, where the bells were rung, but climbed to the third, loosed the ropes that held the tongues of the bells, then went down again, pale, his eyes gleaming, but without tears.

The rain commenced to slacken and the sky to clear. Basilio knotted the ropes, fastened an end to a beam of the balcony, and, forgetting to blow out the candle, glided down into the darkness.

Some minutes later voices were heard in a street of the pueblo, and two rifle shots rang out; but it raised no alarm, and all again became silent.

XIV.

SISA.

Nearly an hour's walk from the pueblo lived the mother of Basilio and Crispin, wife of a man who passed his time in lounging or watching cock-fights while she struggled to bring up their children. The husband and wife saw each other rarely, and their interviews were painful. To feed his vices, he had robbed her of her few trinkets, and when the unhappy Sisa had nothing more with which to satisfy his caprices he began to abuse her. Without much strength of will, dowered with more heart than reason, she only knew how to love and to weep. Her husband was a god, her children were angels. He, who knew how much he was adored and feared, like other false gods, grew more and more arbitrary and cruel.

The stars were glittering in the sky cleared by the tempest. Sisa sat on the wooden bench, her chin in her hand, watching some branches smoulder on her hearth of uncut stones. On these stones was a little pan where rice was cooking, and among the cinders were three dry sardines.

She was still young, and one saw she had been beautiful. Her eyes, which, with her soul, she had given to her sons, were fine, deep, and fringed with dark lashes; her face was regular; her skin pure olive. In spite of her youth, suffering, hunger sometimes, had begun to hollow her cheeks. Her abundant hair, once her glory, was still carefully dressed--but from habit, not coquetry.

All day Sisa had been thinking of the pleasure coming at night. She picked the finest tomatoes in her garden--favorite dish of little Crispin; from her neighbor, Tasio, she got a fillet of wild boar and a wild duck's thigh for Basilio, and she chose and cooked the whitest rice on the threshing-floor.

Alas! the father arrived. Good-by to the dinner! He ate the rice, the filet of wild boar, the duck's thigh, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, happy to see her husband satisfied, and so much happier that, having eaten, he remembered he had children and asked where they were. The poor mother smiled. She had promised herself to eat nothing--there was not enough left for three; but the father had thought of his sons, that was better than food.

Sisa, left alone, wept a little; but she thought of her children, and dried her tears. She cooked the little rice she had left, and the three sardines.

Attentive to every sound, she now sat listening: a footfall strong and regular, it was Basilio's; light and unsteady, Crispin's.

But the children did not come.

To pass the time, she hummed a song. Her voice was beautiful, and when her children heard her sing "Kundiman" they cried, without knowing why. To-night her voice trembled, and the notes came tardily.

She went to the door and scanned the road. A black dog was there, searching about. It frightened Sisa, and she threw a stone, sending the dog off howling.

Sisa was not superstitious, but she had so often heard of black dogs and presentiments that terror seized her. She shut the door in haste and sat down by the light. She prayed to the Virgin, to God Himself, to take care of her boys, and most for the little Crispin. Then, drawn away from prayer by her sole preoccupation, she thought no longer of aught but her children, of all their ways, which seemed to her so pleasing. Then the terror returned. Vision or reality, Crispin stood by the hearth, where he often sat to chatter to her. He said nothing, but looked at her with great, pensive eyes, and smiled.

"Mother, open! Open the door, mother!" said Basilio's voice outside.

Sisa shuddered, and the vision disappeared.

XV.

BASILIO.