I know how she felt. What a feast it would be,
to strike, and strike, and strike! I could drive ten,
twenty, fifty nails, into Santa Anna, when I think of Juan."
No one had before dared to breathe her boy's name in her
hearing. She herself had never spoken it. It fell upon the
ears of both women like a strain of forgotten music. They
looked at each other with eyes that stirred memory and love to
their sweetest depths. Almost in whispers they began to talk
of the dead boy, to recall how lovable, how charming, how
affectionate, how obedient he had been. Then the Senora broke
open the seals of her sorrow, and, with bitter reproaches on
herself, confessed that the kiss she had denied her Juan was
a load of anguish upon her heart that she could not bear.
"If I had only blessed him," she moaned; "I had saved him from
his misfortune. A mother's blessing is such a holy thing!
And he knelt at my knees, and begged it. I can see his eyes
in the darkness, when my eyes are shut. I can hear his voice
when I am asleep. Isabel, I shall never be happy till I see
Juan again, and say to him, `Forgive me, dear one, forgive me,
for I have suffered.'"
Both were weeping, but Isabel said, bravely: "I am sure
that Juan does not blame you now, mi madre. In the other
world one understands better. And remember, also, the letter
which he wrote you.
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