It was almost impossible to induce her to come to a decision
of any kind; and only when she saw Antonia and Isabel were
dressed for a journey, and that Thomas had locked up all the
rooms and was extinguishing the fires, could she bring herself
to believe that the trial so long anticipated had really come.
"My dearest mother! My own life and the lives of many others
may now hang upon a few moments. I can remain here no longer.
Where shall I take you to?"
"I will not leave my home."
"Santa Anna is almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray
Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine monks are coming here.
I was told that yesterday."
"Then I will go to the convent. I and my daughters."
"No, mother; if you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must
go with me."
She prayed, and exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels,
and to the holy Virgin, until Isabel was hysterically weeping,
Antonia at a mental tension almost unendurable, and Thomas on
the verge of one of those terrifying passions that mark
the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.
"My God, mother!" he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred
boot on the stone floor; "if you will go to the devil--to the
priests, I mean--you must go alone. Kiss your mother
farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait."
Then, in a passion of angry sobs and reproaches, she decided
to go with her daughters, and no saint ever suffered with a
more firm conviction of their martyrdom to duty than did this
poor foolish, affectionate slave to her emotions and her
superstitions.
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