The stars were glittering in the sky cleared by the tempest. Sisa sat on the wooden bench, her chin in her hand, watching some branches smoulder on her hearth of uncut stones. On these stones was a little pan where rice was cooking, and among the cinders were three dry sardines.

She was still young, and one saw she had been beautiful. Her eyes, which, with her soul, she had given to her sons, were fine, deep, and fringed with dark lashes; her face was regular; her skin pure olive. In spite of her youth, suffering, hunger sometimes, had begun to hollow her cheeks. Her abundant hair, once her glory, was still carefully dressed--but from habit, not coquetry.

All day Sisa had been thinking of the pleasure coming at night. She picked the finest tomatoes in her garden--favorite dish of little Crispin; from her neighbor, Tasio, she got a fillet of wild boar and a wild duck's thigh for Basilio, and she chose and cooked the whitest rice on the threshing-floor.

Alas! the father arrived. Good-by to the dinner! He ate the rice, the filet of wild boar, the duck's thigh, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, happy to see her husband satisfied, and so much happier that, having eaten, he remembered he had children and asked where they were. The poor mother smiled. She had promised herself to eat nothing--there was not enough left for three; but the father had thought of his sons, that was better than food.

Sisa, left alone, wept a little; but she thought of her children, and dried her tears. She cooked the little rice she had left, and the three sardines.

Attentive to every sound, she now sat listening: a footfall strong and regular, it was Basilio's; light and unsteady, Crispin's.

But the children did not come.

To pa.s.s the time, she hummed a song. Her voice was beautiful, and when her children heard her sing "Kundiman" they cried, without knowing why. To-night her voice trembled, and the notes came tardily.

She went to the door and scanned the road. A black dog was there, searching about. It frightened Sisa, and she threw a stone, sending the dog off howling.

Sisa was not superst.i.tious, but she had so often heard of black dogs and presentiments that terror seized her. She shut the door in haste and sat down by the light. She prayed to the Virgin, to G.o.d Himself, to take care of her boys, and most for the little Crispin. Then, drawn away from prayer by her sole preoccupation, she thought no longer of aught but her children, of all their ways, which seemed to her so pleasing. Then the terror returned. Vision or reality, Crispin stood by the hearth, where he often sat to chatter to her. He said nothing, but looked at her with great, pensive eyes, and smiled.

"Mother, open! Open the door, mother!" said Basilio's voice outside.

Sisa shuddered, and the vision disappeared.

XV.

BASILIO.

Life is a Dream.

Basilio had scarcely strength to enter and fall into his mother's arms. A strange cold enveloped Sisa when she saw him come alone. She wished to speak, but found no words; to caress her son, but found no force. Yet at the sight of blood on his forehead, her voice came, and she cried in a tone which seemed to tell of a breaking heartstring:

"My children!"

"Don't be frightened, mama; Crispin stayed at the convent."

"At the convent? He stayed at the convent? Living?"

The child raised his eyes to hers.

"Ah!" she cried, pa.s.sing from the greatest anguish to the utmost joy. She wept, embraced her child, covered with kisses his wounded forehead.

"And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?"

Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.

"O G.o.d! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!" murmured the mother.

She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:

"Why," she asked, "did Crispin stay at the convent?"

Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the story of the lost money; he said nothing of the torture of his little brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.

"Accuse my good Crispin! It's because we are poor, and the poor must bear everything," murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.

"But you have not eaten," said the mother. "Here are sardines and rice."

"I'm not hungry, mama; I only want some water."

"Yes, eat," said the mother. "I know you don't like dry sardines, and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child."

"My father came?" and Basilio instinctively examined his mother's face and hands.

The question pained the mother; she sighed.

"You won't eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late."

Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother, who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother's side, trembling with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas and he slept.

In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.

"What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?"

"I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn't it? Say it was nothing but a dream!"

"What were you dreaming?"

He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.

"Tell me the dream," said Sisa, when he had lain down again. "I cannot sleep."

"It is gone now, mama; I don't remember it all."

Sisa did not insist: she attached no importance to dreams.

"Mama," said Basilio after a moment of silence, "I'm not sleepy either. I had a project last evening. I don't want to be a sacristan."

"What?"

"Listen, mama. The son of Don Rafael came home from Spain to-day; he should be as kind as his father. Well, to-morrow I find Crispin, get my pay, and say I'm not going to be a sacristan. Then I'll go see Don Crisostomo and ask him to make me a buffalo-keeper. Crispin could go on studying with old Tasio. Tasio's better than the curate thinks; I've often seen him praying in the church when no one else was there. What shall I lose in not being a sacristan? One earns little and loses it all in fines. I'll be a herdsman, mama, and take good care of the cows and carabaos, and make my master love me; then perhaps he'll let us have a cow to milk: Crispin loves milk. And I could fish in the rivers and go hunting when I get big. And by and by perhaps I could have a little land and sow sugar-cane. We could all live together, then. And old Tasio says Crispin is very bright. By and by we would send him to study at Manila, and I would work for him. Shall we, mama? He might be a doctor; what do you say?"

"What can I say, except that you are right," answered Sisa, kissing her son.