Pedro Gomez, strong man as he was, trembled in every limb, and sank on a seat breathless; but even in his agitation he resisted the efforts of his niece to unwrap the child.
“Let it be,” he said; “I will myself look at this gift which the Saints have sent me.”
With trembling hands he undid its wrappings. The babe was crying lustily; red, grimacing, struggling, it was still a pretty child,—a girl only a few days old. Around its neck, under the little dress of white linen, was a silken cord. Pedro drew it forth, certain of what he should find. Florencia pounced upon the blue reliquary eagerly. “Let us open it,” she said; “perhaps we shall find something to tell us where the babe comes from, and whose it is.”
“Nonsense!” said Pedro, decidedly; “what should we find in it but scraps of paper scribbled with prayers? And who would open a reliquary?”
Florencia looked down abashed, for she was a good daughter of the Church, and had been taught to reverence such things.
“No, no, girl! run to the village and bring a woman who can nourish this starving creature;” and as the girl flew to execute her commission, Pedro completed his examination of the child.
It was clothed in linen, finer than rancheros use even in their gala attire, and the red flannel with white spots, called bayeta, was of the softest to be procured; but beyond this there was nothing to indicate the class to which the child belonged. Upon a slip of paper pinned to its bosom was written the name Maria Dolores (what more natural than that such a child should bear the name, and be placed under the protection of the Mother of Sorrows?), and upon the reverse was “Señora Doña Isabel Garcia.” Was this to commend the waif to the care or attention of that powerful lady? Pedro rather chose to think it a warning against her. “What! place the bird before the hawk?” With a grim smile he thrust the paper into his bosom. Doña Isabel was he knew not where,—later would be time enough to think of her; meanwhile, here were all the women and children, all the old men, and halt and lame of the village, trooping up to see this waif, which in such an unusual manner had been dropped into the gate-keeper’s horny palms.
Some of the women laughed; all the men joked Pedro when they saw the child, though a yellow nimbus of hair around its head and the fineness of its clothing puzzled them.
Pedro had hastily thrust the slip of paper into his breast, scarce knowing why he did so; for though some instinct as powerful as if it were a living voice that spoke, urged him to secrete the child, to rush away with it into the fastnesses of the mountains, rather than to render it to Doña Isabel, he did not doubt for a moment that she herself had provided for its mysterious appearance at the hacienda, that it might be received as a waif, and cared for by Doña Feliz as her representative.
These thoughts flashed through his mind, and he heard again Herlinda’s despairing cry: “Watch for my child! Protect it! protect it!” Was it possible that she had actually known that this disposition would be made of her child? Involuntarily his arms closed around it, and he clasped it to his broad breast, looking defiantly around.