Strangely enough, Ashley Ward had never spoken the name of Herlinda to Gonzales; nor had either mentioned that of Chinita—an inexplicable yet differing motive holding both silent. The rapid events of the war, which had given full occupation to body and mind, had prevented discussion of domestic matters, and there was something in the reticence of Gonzales that forbade aught but deeply serious investigation; and for the present Ward was unprepared to attempt this. They were friends; but there were deeps in the nature of each that the other made no attempt to fathom. Upon this night Ward knew the mind of Gonzales perhaps better than did the man himself; and throughout the unwonted scenes of which he was a mere passive spectator, to him the most engrossing were the emotions that betrayed themselves upon the countenance of the commanding officer.
As Ashley and Gonzales left their quarters together, behind them followed closely a man in a sergeant’s uniform, who halted painfully, and across whose face was a livid scar. To those who had heard nothing of the torture he had undergone, Pedro Gomez would have been scarcely recognizable,—for besides the disfiguring scar, there was an expression of vengeful and ferocious daring where before had been but dogged obstinacy and a certain rough kindliness; and to those who had believed him dead, his appearance would have brought a superstitious horror as that of one escaped from the torments of the damned.
Besides these three, several officers and other gentlemen, with a small guard of soldiers, passed out of the citadel afoot, and at a short interval were followed by all the available carriages of the town. What occurred thereafter may perhaps be best described by a translation of the chronicles of the time:—
“One night—one terrible night—a long and unusual sound, a prolonged rumble, was heard in the streets. It seemed shortly as if all the carriages in the city had become mad, now rushing hither, now thither, waking from sleep the peaceful neighborhood; so that each person demanded of the other, ‘What is this?’ ‘What has happened?’ and no one could answer with certainty the other.
“While the people wondered, the carriages stopped at the doors of the nunneries, and the gentlemen charged with the commission demanded entrance, and intimated to the nuns the order to leave their cells and refrain from reuniting in cloister.
“‘But, gentlemen, for God’s love!’
“‘How can this be?’
“‘His will be done!’
“‘But where can we go? Oh, what iniquity!’
“Such were the phrases that broke the startled stillness of the cloisters. But the commissioners were deaf to all appeals, merely rubbing their hands and saying,—