A cry came from Rosendo’s house. Ana, her face swollen with weeping, clasping her sightless babe to her bosom, had emerged and faced the captain.
“Señor,” she said in a voice strained to a whisper, “I am the daughter of Rosendo Ariza.”
A half-suppressed exclamation burst from the lips of Rosendo. A desperate, suffocating joy surged over the riven soul of the priest. Don Jorge’s mouth opened, but no sound came forth. This precipitate dénoûement held them rigid with astonishment.
A heavy silence descended upon them all. In the eyes of Josè Ana’s tense figure, standing grim and rigid before the captain, took on a dignity that was majestic, a worth that transcended all human computation. A Magdalen, yes, standing with her sin-conceived child clasped in her trembling arms. But this act––God above! this sacrificial act broke the alabaster box and spread the precious nard over the feet of the pitying Christ.
Morales turned questioningly to Josè. “Is this true, Padre?” he asked.
“It is,” murmured the dazed priest, scarce hearing his own words.
“But––I have no orders respecting a child––”
“They cannot be separated,” half whispered Josè, not daring to meet the vacant gaze of the babe.
The captain hesitated a moment longer. Then, with an upward glance at the sun, he gave a sharp command to his men. Placing the woman between them, the two soldiers faced about and moved quickly away. With a low bow and a final “Adios, Señores,” the captain hurriedly joined them. Ere the little group before Rosendo’s house had collected their wits, the soldiers and their frail charge had mounted the hill beyond the old church and disappeared into the matted trail that led from it to the distant river.
Rosendo was the first to break the mesmeric silence. “Dios arriba!” he cried. His knees gave way beneath him and he buried his face in his hands. “Anita––!”