She glanced up at the yellow-green sky.
"Holy San Pablo! Has he forgot! Is it so little to him, that he forgets my poor boy Josefa, the dependiente in 'Sol y Sombra,' whom he loaded with irons and hid away in La Fortuna!"
The drummer regarded the old creature with troubled surprise to find that she was connected with the unhappy clerk in "Sol y Sombra." Indeed, he had almost forgot the incident of the little monkey-eyed clerk; or at least it no longer disturbed him. The battle of San Geronimo had somehow cut a gap in his life, and all things antecedent to it seemed in a remote past. Now this woman had abruptly crossed the gap, and had bound one of the keenest indiscretions of his old life with his new. Somewhere under the black hulk of La Fortuna, which glowered against the sunset, Josefa still existed. Strawbridge felt that thrill of discomfort which a sportsman feels when a quail flutters in his coat hours after it should have died. He hardly knew what to say. Finally he asked:
"Are you Josefa's mother!"
"His grandmother, señor. He lived with me, but when he fell into misfortune, I had to give up my house, and Father Benicio found me a place here in the cathedral, to scrub the brasses. I live in the third casa yonder, under the transept." She pointed it out, and, from her tone, the little hut seemed part of her griefs.
She stood looking at Strawbridge expectantly, evidently waiting for him to do or say something. He grew more and more uncomfortable. He put his hand irresolutely into his pocket and drew out some coins, regarded them doubtfully, and made a suggestive movement toward the crone. She held out an old hand, raw in places from her unaccustomed work in the cathedral.
"When do I get my boy back, señor!" she repeated in a low tone.
"Señora, ... I don't know."
"You do not know when you are going to sack La Fortuna!" Her whisper was astonished.