The snowy-haired woman had advanced a few steps to meet her son. She stopped abruptly. She was not looking at the padre, but at Señor Mendoza.
"My mother, allow me to present to you—" began the friar.
"The Lady Romalda!" exclaimed Mendoza, the words clutching his throat.
"Don José!" she cried, holding out her hands, her lips trembling.
Señor Mendoza took her hands in his, and, bending low, reverently kissed the finger-tips. "Romalda! Romalda!"
The padre looked at the two in questioning wonder. The woman and the man seemed to have slipped the years from their shoulders, and to be standing again in youth.
"My boy," said the mother, "Colonel Mendoza and I knew each other well, many years ago. We were very dear—friends," moisture dimming her eyes, emotion halting her voice.
The son was much shaken by his mother's show of feeling. "My beloved mother!" he said, gently stroking her hair.
In a little Señor Mendoza and the Lady Romalda, after the manner of those long separated, began speaking of former times. Soon the padre excused himself, to return to his brethren, leaving his mother and Señor Mendoza seated under the trellised vines.
Nothing but kindliness and tenderness and chivalry was in Mendoza's heart for the woman by his side. Memories long forgotten came to life, under stimulation of the Lady Romalda's presence. Robbed of all harshness were those bygone times. The happy and useful life he had spent in his adopted country left bitterness no room.