"I told you one day, my lady, that my son filled me with pride; and God has permitted that this son, my boast and my glory, should be defamed by all the appearances of a crime."
"Appearances!" said Nora. "Who says that?"
"Every one," answered Maria with gentle firmness, and, after a moments' pause, she continued with the same serenity: "A profound mystery hides from my eyes, as from those of all others, the circumstances of his flight; but, if anyone has foully caused it, may God forgive him, as I do! He and I know that my son was not—could not be—a criminal; this is enough for me; I will be silent and submit."
"And your motherly conviction does not deceive you!" exclaimed Ismena, falling back upon the pillows of the sofa.
They carried her to her couch, attributing her exhaustion to the excitement and fatigue of the journey.
Her agitation having been gradually calmed by a narcotic, she was once more left in the care of the nurse.
The general, with delicate fore-thought, had caused the flow of the fountain to be stopped, in order that the uncertain repose of his wile might not be disturbed by the murmur of its water. But the clock in the parlor struck twelve—twelve warning notes from the lips of time. As if the old man had counted with inflexible memory the twelve years she had survived her crime; the twelve years passed in luxury and surrounded by an areola of respect and public consideration, since, in sacrificing conscience to pride, she had also sacrificed the life and fair fame of a noble and innocent man.
Ismena awoke with a start and sat upright in her bed, her perplexed glances wandering in all directions, and a wild fever burning in her veins. A devouring inquietude possessed her; the weight upon her breast suffocated her. She sprang from the couch and rushed to the window; for, like Margret in the "Faust" of Goethe, she was suffocating for air. Moonlight and silence reposed without in a tranquil embrace. So profound was the calm that it weighed upon the burdened soul of Ismena like the still but oppressive atmosphere which precedes the tempest.
She leaned her burning forehead against the window bars. The court lay black beneath—black but gilded; an emblem of her life. Then from a distance there came to her ears two voices, blended, like faith and hope, in prayer. They were the voices of Maria and Piedad reciting the rosary. There was something deeply solemn in the sweet monotony with which the words, without passion, without variation, without terrestrial modulations, rose to heaven, as the smoke rises from the incense of the altar, gently, without color, without impetuosity, as if drawn upward by celestial attraction. Something very impressive in those words, thousands of times repeated because thousands of times felt, in those petitions which are a verbal tradition from Jesus Christ and his apostles; words so perfect and complete in themselves, that all the progress and all the enlightenment of the human mind have vainly endeavored to improve them.