Part 20

"Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least," she cried, as they laid hold of her.

The soldiers spoke together apart.

"Very well," said one, "when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on now, and quick!"

Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face, in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable; every one, even her husband, had abandoned her; but until now she had always felt herself respected.

As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked on all sides, seeking some succor in nature--death in the river would be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light in the darkness of her soul.

"Afterward," she said to herself,--"afterward, we will go to live in the heart of the forest."

She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:

"We are at the pueblo," she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.

The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.

A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened, in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two women she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her eyes on the ground.

At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes, and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:

"Where did you find her? Did you get the money?"

Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way under her feet.

"This way!" cried a guard.

Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. A gate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still more imperious checked her. While she sought to find whence the voice came, she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes, took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.

It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, and chickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothes or clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.

"Where is the sergeant?" demanded one of the guards angrily. "Has the alférez been informed?"

A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would take any trouble for the poor woman.

Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner, her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alférez arrived. He refused to believe the curate's accusations.

"Bah! monks' tricks!" said he; and ordered that the woman be released and the affair dropped.

"If he wants to find what he's lost," he added, "let him complain to the nuncio! That's all I have to say."

Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of the barracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fast as she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyes fixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not a cloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves of the trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.

At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin, ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ran to old Tasio's, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poor thing went back and commenced to call, "Basilio! Crispin!" standing still, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweet murmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred by the breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude. She called anew, mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took a sinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them, then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have said the light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.

She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the night before--she and Basilio--and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboo fence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio's blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent over and continued to look at this rag from her child's clothing, raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.

At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the human larynx would hardly know how to produce.

The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her sleep, and an angel's wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the beings of great Nature.

Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisóstomo presented himself at the home of his fiancée; the curate arrived at the same moment. The house was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.

"The winds blow fresh," said the curate; "aren't you afraid of taking cold?"