At the sound of approaching footsteps, those within sprang to their feet in terror. Even the brutes hurtled together within the very rail of the altar, leaving free the space between the fire and the low arch beneath which the intruders stood. The women stood panting, their hands clasped upon their hearts, their lips parted, their eyes staring wildly. Doña Isabel was foremost. She first saw as in a vision her daughter, whom she believed still within convent walls, supported by the arm of the American. She sank upon her knees; her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth.
“Mother,” said Herlinda in a voice which gave conviction of the reality of her presence, “I am no ghost. The convents have been opened,—I am free. Where is my daughter? You took her from me,—give her back to me. My child! my child!”
She advanced into the chapel with a gesture so earnest, so impassioned, that it seemed that of concentrated power and anguish combined.
Doña Isabel bowed her head on her hand. Under the red light of the fire her form seemed to shrink and wither.
“Have mercy! oh, Herlinda, have mercy!” she moaned. “Your child is not here. I am seeking her, oh with what grief, what anguish! Ah, my God, it is true,—all, all that you can say to me!” She raised her eyes and they fell upon Gonzales. “I thought to save your honor and mine. That there still might be love and joy for you, I gave the child to Feliz to do with as she would. I did not think, I could not think—”
“Cruel, cruel mother!” cried Herlinda, “and false Feliz! Oh, what reproaches will be bitter enough, sharp enough, to heap upon her! She promised me she would love my child, care for it, protect it,—yes, even from you, unnatural mother that you were! Yet together you have degraded, perhaps brought about the ruin of, my child! I have been shut in from all the world,—and yet I am not the weak girl I was. No, the heart and brain of a woman grow even in utter darkness. You had no right to thrust my child away. No, she was mine,—come disgrace, come scorn, what would, she was mine. You tore her from me,—give her back to me!”
While this extraordinary scene took place, Chata with indescribable emotion recognized the pale impulsive face of the nun of El Toro,—so pale still, so worn, yet so strangely young, and lighted by the intense and resolute spirit of a wronged and noble woman.
“Yes, give me back my child!” reiterated Herlinda. “Ah, Mother, I read your heart; I know now better than I did then your motives for utterly ignoring, utterly denying my connection with the American. Your brother killed him: it was to shelter him, Leon Vallé, as much as to hide what you believed my shame, that you tore my baby from me. You resolved that there should be neither wonder nor question that could incriminate your idol. Oh, a sister’s love, a sister’s sacrifice is beautiful; but where in all the world before has it been stronger, more prescient than that of the mother for her child?”
Doña Isabel raised her hands above her head as though to ward off some crushing blow. Carmen rushed forward and caught her sister’s hand. “Herlinda,” she cried, “say no more. I am your sister—I am Carmen! Oh, I have always known there was a mystery; yet I have loved you, believed you true, believed you pure. You were almost a child,—you knew not the evil!”
“I was not a child!” returned Herlinda, proudly, yet clasping her sister with a grateful joy. “For all my trusting love I would not have stooped to sin. I was married. Yes,” she added defiantly, “though all the world deny it, I was married. God grant that I may one day stand before my husband’s murderer,—oh, with that word I will overwhelm him. What! he, the ravisher, the assassin, think to avenge my honor!”