The widow sighed and glanced at the pillow as it lay on the table covered from dust, only the gay beads which tipped the bobbins being visible.
Augustina bustled about, making the house ready for the day, drawing the shade across the window so that her mother’s siesta should not be disturbed in case she did not return immediately, and then she went into the kitchen. Here she packed into a small basket some little cakes and such simple food as their home afforded, and covered it with a napkin. Then, with her mantilla drawn over her head, she went into her mother’s room and said,—
“Adios, mother, till I return. I may be late, so do not worry. Be sure that I will not forget your Ave at the cathedral.”
Kissing her fondly, she went down the stone stairs which led to their rooms, treading softly so as not to rouse any of the neighbours who might come out and ask whither she was going.
She walked quickly up the quiet street, and, with a corner of her mantilla drawn over her face, looked neither to the right nor left. Few people were about, and every moment came the boom of the cannon, now a little louder and now less so,—as they were fired from the walls, or from the distant cannon of the enemy.
She kept bravely on, for she had a purpose before her. She wished to make a prayer for herself as well as for her mother, and turned to the cathedral, whither were also others hurrying, bound on the same errand as herself.
As the leather curtain of the door fell behind her, the dusky light of the great cathedral was pointed here and there by hundreds of twinkling lights, and side by side on the pavement kneeled noble lady or ragged beggar, all intent on their devotions, whispering prayers for the deliverance of their beloved city and for the safety of her defenders. The solemn tones of the organ and the voices of the chanting priests were the only sounds to be heard, save from time to time a sob from some mourner who prayed for the dead.
As Augustina stood once more in the sunshine on the great steps of the church, she looked up and down the street, hardly able to realise that while the sky was so bright, such misery was in many homes, and such cruel fighting on the walls.
“On the walls!” Yes; that was the place whither she was bound! Felipe had not been to their home since the day before yesterday. Something must have happened to detain him, for as he left he had called back,—
“Look for me to-morrow, Augustina”; and when Felipe said a thing he always kept his word; no one knew that better than she. It had been so from the days when they were little children together. When Felipe said, “I will do this,” or “I will not do that,” it always fell out just as he said. So now she was going to see for herself what had happened to keep him away. A horrid idea rose before her mind of Felipe wounded, but she drove it away, and thought only of how young he was and strong, so proud of being chosen by his townsmen to serve on the walls, so delighted with his uniform.