XVIII.

THE STORY OF A MOTHER.

Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experienced one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner, we fly toward it without stopping to question.

Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?

As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.

The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.

She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed now by a band of garzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One of the guards beckoned her.

Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her throat parch.

"Speak the truth, or we'll tie you to this tree and shoot you," said one of the guards.

Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.

"You are the mother of the thieves?"

"The mother of the thieves?" repeated Sisa, without comprehending.

"Where is the money your sons brought home last night?"

"Ah! the money----"

"Give us the money, and we'll let you alone."

"Senores," said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again, "my boys do not steal, even when they're hungry; we are used to suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a real, do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves."

"Well then," said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa's, "follow us!"

"I--follow you?" And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms of the guards. "Oh, have pity on me! I'm very poor, I've nothing to give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my miserable cabin, but let me--let me--die here in peace!"

"March! do you hear? and if you don't go without making trouble, we'll tie your hands."

"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 alferez 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 alferez 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, Crisostomo presented himself at the home of his fiancee; 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?"

"I don't feel the wind, father," said Maria.

"We Filipinos," said Crisostomo, "find this season of autumn and spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between, is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go."

The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the festival of its patron saint, which was near.

"Speaking of fetes," said Crisostomo to the curate, "we hope you will join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to start for the fishing-ground before sunrise," he went on to the curate, "and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo."

The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final arrangements.

As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.

"Who are you?" asked Crisostomo.

"You would not know my name, senor; I have been trying to see you for three days."

"And what do you want?"

"Senor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will help me find them. I want your aid."

"Come with me," said Ibarra.

The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness of the unlighted streets.