“That is the truth, Luis,” answered Isabel. “And every Christmas, when I was in the convent the Sisters made a serenade to the Virgin, or a seguidilla to our blessed Lord. Very still are the Sisters, but when it comes to singing, I can assure you the angels might listen!”
“There is a seguidilla I hear everywhere,” said the doctor; “and I never hear it without feeling the better for listening. It begins—‘So noble a Lord.’”
“That, indeed!” cried Luis. “Who knows it not? It is the seguidilla to our blessed Lord, written by the daughter of Lope de Vega—the holy Marcela Carpio. You know it, Senora?”
“As I know my Credo, Luis.”
“And you, Isabel?”
“Since I was a little one, as high as my father’s knee. Rachela taught it to me.”
“And you, Lopez.”
“That is sure, Luis.”
“And I, too!” said Antonia, smiling. “Here is your mandolin. Strike the chords, and we will all sing with you. My father will remember also.” And the doctor smiled an assent, as the young man resigned Isabel’s hand with a kiss, and swept the strings in that sweetness and power which flows invisibly, but none the less surely, from the heart to the instrument.
“It is to my blessed Lord and Redeemer, I sing,” he said, bowing his head. Then he stood up and looked at his companions, and struck the key-note, when every one joined their voices with his in the wonderful little hymn: