“It must be as mother desires.”
When the circumstances were explained to the Senora, she was at first very determined to accept neither alternative. “She would remain where she was. She was a Flores and a Gonzaga. Santa Anna knew better than to molest her. She would rather trust to him than to those dreadful Americans.” Reminded of Fray Ignatius, she shed a few tears over the poor padrecito, and assured her children they had made a mistake regarding him, which neither oil nor ointment, nor wit nor wisdom, could get over.
It was almost impossible to induce her to come to a decision of any kind; and only when she saw Antonia and Isabel were dressed for a journey, and that Thomas had locked up all the rooms and was extinguishing the fires, could she bring herself to believe that the trial so long anticipated had really come.
“My dearest mother! My own life and the lives of many others may now hang upon a few moments. I can remain here no longer. Where shall I take you to?”
“I will not leave my home.”
“Santa Anna is almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine monks are coming here. I was told that yesterday.”
“Then I will go to the convent. I and my daughters.”
“No, mother; if you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must go with me.”
She prayed, and exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels, and to the holy Virgin, until Isabel was hysterically weeping, Antonia at a mental tension almost unendurable, and Thomas on the verge of one of those terrifying passions that mark the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.
“My God, mother!” he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred boot on the stone floor; “if you will go to the devil—to the priests, I mean—you must go alone. Kiss your mother farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait.”