“Marcelena,” the priest returned, stopping. “The girl––is she––?”
“She is dying,” interrupted the woman in a voice broken with sobs.
“Dying! Then the child––?”
“Yes, Padre, born an hour ago––a boy. It lives. Ah, Santa Virgen, such suffering! Pray for us, Mother of God!” murmured the weeping woman, bending her head and repeatedly making the sign of the cross.
“Who is with her now?” the priest continued hurriedly.
“Only Catalina. The doctor said he would return. He is good to the blessed child. And Padre Lorenzo came––but he would not shrive her little white soul––”
“And the father––?”
“He does not know,” the woman sobbed. “Who would dare to tell him! Think you he would come? That he would own the babe? He would not give one blessed candle to set beside the little mother’s poor sweet body! Ah, Santa Maria! who will buy Masses for her little soul? Who––?”
“But he shall know!” cried the priest, his face livid. “And he shall acknowledge his child and care for it! Dios––! But wait, Marcelena. I can do nothing now. But I will return.” Leaving the woman sobbing prayers to the Virgin Mother, the priest hurried on.