Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.
“I shall come back soon,” he said, “and bring my little brother; then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia.”
“Don’t forget us!” said the old man, “and come back when you are well.” The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo over the rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo with her basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched them both out of sight.
The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego were trembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo was sad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the houses announcing the joyful time, as in other years.
At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talking with Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.
“You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment,” Captain Basilio was saying to his guest. “They’ve burned your books, that’s true; but others have fared worse.”
A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant, her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.
“Sisa?” asked Don Filipo, in surprise. “I thought she was with a physician.”
Captain Basilio smiled bitterly.