“From Kentucky. He fought with the Mexicans when they were fighting for their liberty; but when they wanted a king and a dictator he resigned his commision{sic} and was thrown into prison. He has a long bill against Santa Anna.”
“We must not forget, Luis,” said the Senora with a little flash of her old temper, “that Santa Anna represents to good Catholics the triumph of Holy Church.”
Luis devoutly crossed himself. “I am her dutiful son, I assure you, Senora—always.”
A warning glance from Antonia changed the conversation. There was plenty to tell which touched them mainly on the side of the family, and the Senora listened, with pride which she could not conceal, to the exploits of her husband and sons, though she did not permit herself to confess the feeling. And her heart softened to her children. Without acknowledging the tie between Isabel and Luis, she permitted or was oblivious to the favors it allowed.
Certainly many little formalities could be dispensed with, in a meeting so unexpected and so eventful. When the pleasant impromptu meal was over, even the Senora had eaten and drunk with enjoyment. Then Luis set the table behind them, and they drew closer to the fire, Luis holding Isabel’s hand, and Antonia her mother’s. The Senora took a cigarette from Luis, and Isabel sometimes put that of Luis between her rosy lips. At the dark, cold midnight they found an hour or two of sweetest consolation. It was indeed hard to weary these three heart-starved women; they asked question after question, and when any brought out the comical side of camp life they forget their pleasure was almost a clandestine one, and laughed outright.
In the very midst of such a laugh, Rachela entered the room. She stood in speechless amazement, gazing with a dark, malicious face upon the happy group. “Senorita Isabel!” she screamed; “but this is abominable! At the midnight also! Who could have believed in such wickedness? Grace of Mary, it is inconceivable!”
She laid her hand roughly on Isabel’s shoulder, and Luis removed it with as little courtesy. “You were not called,” he said, with the haughty insolence of a Mexican noble to a servant—“Depart.”
“My Senora! Listen! You yourself also—you will die. You that are really weak—so broken-hearted—”
Then a miracle occurred. The Senora threw off the nightmare of selfish sorrow and spiritual sentimentality which had held her in bondage. She took the cigarito from her lips with a scornful air, and repeated the words of Luis:
“You were not called. Depart.”