“Oh, God!” cried the heart of the father, “thou dost exist, because thou dost chastise! Take vengeance upon me, but do not strike the innocent; save my daughter!”
LV.
The Nochebuena.
Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers and wild boars’ heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the chase and the cup of the woods.
Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons, and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It is Sisa’s son, Basilio.
“When your foot is well,” said the little boy, “you will go with us to the top of the mountain and drink deer’s blood and lemon juice; then you’ll grow fat; then I’ll show you how to jump from one rock to another, over the torrent.”
Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at the sun, which was shining splendidly.
“Sell these brooms, Lucia,” said the grandfather to the young girl, “and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas.”
“Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!” cried the little boy.