But at the moment when the two fiery steeds would have clashed together, a woman threw herself before Ramirez and caught his arm, calling aloud his name. With that wonderful power of the bridle-hand possessed by the horsemen of Mexico, Gonzales drew back his charger and gazed full at his opponent, whom force more potent than a blow seemed to arrest. The crowd surged in; Ramirez’s horse was forced back. The woman had fallen in the mêlée; and with a curse upon her the guerilla chieftain was swept onward in the current of retreat.
Chata from the balcony had witnessed this incident in the distance. She shrieked as the woman fell. An officer who was speeding past looked up,—it was Fernando Ruiz. “Coward!” she involuntarily cried, “to leave your General!” She realized how impossible, having lost the first moment of vantage, would be an attempt to control the undisciplined and flying rabble when even the officers had succumbed to panic; and for the first time her sympathies woke for Ramirez.
Yielding to the necessity of the moment the General had put spurs to his horse. The bullets flew past him as he sped over the highway; yet he glanced up as he passed the house,—he even drew rein for an instant in alarmed surprise.
“Go in! go in!” he cried. “What! wilt thou be killed in mere wantoness? Go in, I tell thee! Are both to be killed before my eyes to-day?” Chata sprang through the open window in affright, obedient rather to his stern yet imploring gesture than to his words. He glanced back, fired a pistol toward a pair of Liberal soldiers who had rapidly gained upon him, and without the change of a muscle upon his set face, as one of them pitched headlong from his plunging steed, continued his flight and disappeared in the low bushes.
With horror Chata watched the death agony of the wounded soldier. His comrade had not thought it worth while to linger; there might be booty or sport elsewhere. All the church bells were being rung for the victory by this time. The half hour’s fight was over; the fort had been taken, the garrison routed, a pronunciamiento successful; the town had changed its politics. A few dead men were lying in the streets, a few wounded were bathing or plastering their bleeding heads or limbs; the closed houses were opening again; the street merchants were setting forth their wares; and one of the thousand phases of the revolution had passed.
The next day the Liberal soldiers were lounging about the streets; the boys were shouting, “Long live Gonzales!” as they went by, as they had shouted before, “Long live Ramirez!” A tranquil gayety pervaded the place. No one would have known its peace had ever been disturbed.
So lovely was the afternoon, and the distant sounds of the band playing in the plaza were so inspiring, that Doña Rita and her two charges sallied forth to visit the convent. They had often been there before. Rosario thought it dull to wait while her mother chatted at the grating with the soft-voiced nuns, but Chata watched them with awe. There was one whose pale face used to peer out wistfully through the semi-darkness; her voice and her large dark eyes, it seemed to Chata, were always softened by tears. She longed to touch the white hand which she sometimes saw raised to the sensitive lips, as if to check some ill-considered word.
Upon this day some rays of light piercing the barred window of the corridor rendered the features of the nun unusually distinct. A sense of bewilderment stole over Chata as she gazed upon them. Where had she seen them before? Who was this Sister Veronica?
The short time allowed for the interview expired; the attendant nun gave her hand to Doña Rita to kiss in token of dismissal, and turned away. As the Sister Veronica extended her hand in turn, Doña Rita caught it eagerly: “Forgive me! Forgive me! Oh, I had thought so ill of you,” she said earnestly; “yet to think ill of you seemed to make my own life noble. Forgive me, Señorita Herlinda, that I ever thought you anything but a true and spotless saint!”
The eyes of the nun opened wide. “Forgive, forgive? I have nothing to forgive; why should not you—ay, all the world—condemn me?” she whispered hoarsely. “Oh, Rita, that face! that face!”