"Mother!" I cried, "mother!" and for a long time that was the only word spoken. We sat down side by side, and her beautiful eyes, dimmed by very joy, looked into mine. She pressed my hand, smoothed my cheeks, and brushed back the hair from my forehead, murmuring softly, "Juan, my Juan!"
I think, perhaps, that great happiness, like great grief, kills speech. At least it was so with us, and we were content to sit there silently gazing into each loved face.
At length the good old major-domo, knocking timidly at the door, announced that supper was served, when my mother with a sigh suffered me to leave her for a few minutes, in order to make myself more presentable for the table.
I would have had José sit down with us, but he disappeared, and perhaps after all it was as well. My mother made only a pretence at eating, and sat with her eyes fixed on me, as though fearful I should in some mysterious way suddenly disappear.
After supper we returned to the drawing-room, where I related my adventures, telling her the story of the shipwreck, of my rescue and imprisonment in the fort, of my marvellous escape, and all the various incidents which had happened since I left home. Of Santiago's information concerning my father I said nothing, though I longed greatly to do so.
"I think General Barejo wished you well," she exclaimed after a pause. "He is not of our way of thinking, but he has a kind heart, and he was a true friend to me before these troubles came upon us."
"Was he ever friendly with father?" I asked.
"He respected him much, though he thought him greatly mistaken. You see, their ideas were altogether opposed, but in private life each esteemed the other."
Presently, remembering that the Royalists no longer held Lima, I said, "What has become of little Rosa? I hope our people have not disturbed her, though it must be lonely for her living in that great house alone. Could she not have come to you?"
"There was no need," and my mother's lips curled scornfully; "she is safe enough with her father."