“Padre Martin!” exclaimed another disdainfully. “He hasn’t any voice. Padre Damaso would be better.”
“That’s right!” cried Rufa. “Padre Damaso surely does know how to preach! He looks like a comedian!”
“But we don’t understand him,” murmured Juana.
“Because he’s very deep! And as he preaches well—”
This speech was interrupted by the arrival of Sisa, who was carrying a basket on her head. She saluted the Sisters and went on up the stairway.
“She’s going in! Let’s go in too!” they exclaimed. Sisa felt her heart beating violently as she ascended the stairs. She did not know just what to say to the padre to placate his wrath or what reasons she could advance in defense of her son. That morning at the first flush of dawn she had gone into her garden to pick the choicest vegetables, which she placed in a basket among banana-leaves and flowers; then she had looked along the bank of the river for the pakó which she knew the curate liked for salads. Putting on her best clothes and without awakening her son, she had set out for the town with the basket on her head. As she went up the stairway she, tried to make as little noise as possible and listened attentively in the hope that she might hear a fresh, childish voice, so well known to her. But she heard nothing nor did she meet any one as she made her way to the kitchen. There she looked into all the corners. The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely acknowledging her greeting.
“Where can I put these vegetables?” she asked, not taking any offense at their coldness.
“There, anywhere!” growled the cook, hardly looking at her as he busied himself in picking the feathers from a capon.
With great care Sisa arranged the vegetables and the salad leaves on the table, placing the flowers above them. Smiling, she then addressed one of the servants, who seemed to be more approachable than the cook: “May I speak with the padre?”
“He’s sick,” was the whispered answer.