Part 80

"And--Linares----"

"If he had lived, I might have married--for my father's sake; but now that he is dead, I want the convent--or the grave."

"You loved him so?" stammered Father Dámaso. Maria did not reply. The father bent his head on his breast.

"My child," he said at last in a broken voice, "forgive me for having made you unhappy; I did not know I was doing it! I thought of your future. How could I let you marry a man of this country, to see you, later on, an unhappy wife and mother? I set myself with all my strength to get this love out of your mind, I used all means--for you, only for you. If you had been his wife, you would have wept for the unfortunate position of your husband, exposed to all sorts of dangers, and without defence; a mother, you would have wept for your children; had you educated them, you would have prepared them a sad future; they would have become enemies of religion; the gallows or exile would have been their portion; had you left them in ignorance, you would have seen them tyrannized over and degraded. I could not consent to this. That is why I found for you a husband whose children should command, not obey; punish, not suffer--I knew your childhood's friend was good, and I liked him, as I did his father; but I hated them both for your sake, because I love you as one loves a daughter, because I idolize you--I have no other love; I have seen you grow up, there isn't an hour in which I do not think of you, you are my one joy----" And Father Dámaso began to cry like a child.

"Then if you love me, do not make me forever miserable; he is dead, I wish to be a nun."

The old man rested his forehead in his hand.

"A nun, a nun!" he repeated. "You do not know, my child, all that is hidden behind the walls of a convent, you do not know! I would a thousand times rather see you unhappy in the world than in the cloister. Here your complaints can be heard; there you have only the walls! You are beautiful, very beautiful; you were not made to renounce the world. Believe me, my child, time alters all things; later you will forget, you will love, you will love your husband--Linares."

"Either the convent or--death," repeated Maria, with no sign of yielding.

"Maria," said the father, "I am not young. I cannot watch over you always; choose something else, find another love, another husband, anything, what you will!"

"I choose the convent."

"My God, my God!" cried the priest, burying his face in his hands. "You punish me, be it so! But watch over my daughter!--Maria, you shall be a nun. I cannot have you die."

Maria took his hands, pressed them, kissed them as she knelt.

"Godfather, my godfather," she said.

"Oh, God!" cried the heart of the father, "thou dost exist, because thou dost chastise! Take vengeance upon me, but do not strike the innocent; save my daughter!"

LV.

THE NOCHEBUENA.

Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers and wild boars' heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the chase and the cup of the woods.

Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons, and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It is Sisa's son, Basilio.

"When your foot is well," said the little boy, "you will go with us to the top of the mountain and drink deer's blood and lemon juice; then you'll grow fat; then I'll show you how to jump from one rock to another, over the torrent."

Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at the sun, which was shining splendidly.

"Sell these brooms, Lucia," said the grandfather to the young girl, "and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas."

"Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!" cried the little boy.

"And what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got up and went to the old man.

"Señor," he said, "have I been ill more than a month?"

"Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have passed. We thought you were going to die----"

"May God reward you; we are very poor," said Basilio; "but as to-day is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me."

"But, son, you aren't well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when they come from the forest."

"You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night--a son!"