“And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?”
Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.
“O God! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!” murmured the mother.
She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:
“Why,” she asked, “did Crispin stay at the convent?”
Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the story of the lost money; he said nothing of the torture of his little brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.
“Accuse my good Crispin! It’s because we are poor, and the poor must bear everything,” murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.
“But you have not eaten,” said the mother. “Here are sardines and rice.”
“I’m not hungry, mama; I only want some water.”
“Yes, eat,” said the mother. “I know you don’t like dry sardines, and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child.”